


Crashing

by drpepperdiva91



Series: Light My Bones on Fire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Anthea is a BAMF, Big Brother Mycroft, Blackmail, Blood, Captivity, Car Accident, Case Fic, Complete, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Grief, Holmes Parents are not canon compliant, Hurt/Comfort, John is confused by his sexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, Loving Sherlock, M/M, Mary Dies, Mentions of past abuse, Nightmares, PTSD, Post HLV, Rating May Change, S3 compliant for now, Sherlock is confused by Sentiment, Sherlock is surprisingly not a complete arse sometimes, Some Offensive Language, Suicidal Ideation, Warnings May Change, Whump, but he tries really hard, but there will be some johnlock fluff later, death of Sherrinford Holmes discussed, grieving Mycroft, johnlock cuddles, maybe a little too much angst, mentions of Serbia, mentions of euthanasia, mentions of torture, sometimes mycroft is an ass, this is getting really sad I'm sorry, watson baby dies too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 54,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Mary, and their 7 month old daughter are in a car accident, killing both girls and leaving Sherlock to help John put the pieces of his life back together. </p><p>When the true nature of the situation is revealed, Sherlock and Mycroft team up to fight the head of an international terrorist organization, nearly losing everything along the way. Casefic really starts in Chapter 20.</p><p>Not beta'd, brit picked, or even always proofread. Apologies if my grammar offends.</p><p>**NOW COMPLETE**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sixth Call

Sherlock was mildly annoyed by the third time his brother rang without leaving a voicemail, or, God help him, sending a simple text. By the fifth time, he was standing at the window of 221B, glaring at the blacked-out sedan waiting for him on the street below.

He answered the sixth call.

"To what do I owe this immense pleasure, Mycroft? I'm sure you're well aware that the temperature of the tongues needs to be precise for this experiment. You can't possibly expect me to abandon my work at this stage."

Mycroft heaved a weighted sigh, dreading the fallout of his next few words, and said, "Come downstairs, Sherlock. There's been a car accident... with the Watsons."

 _John._  Sherlock immediately abandoned the cooling tongues on the kitchen table, _what a shame, they were progressing just as he hypothesized_ , donned his coat and scarf, and was out the door without saying another word to his brother, gently pushing a confused Mrs. Hudson out of his way on the stairs.

"Oh, Sherlock, what's gotten into you? I've made you some-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. Busy. John."

"Oh, have he and Mary finally called it quits? You know, I never quite knew what to think about-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock made his way across the sidewalk and slid into the seat next to his elder brother. Fastening his seatbelt, he studied his brother's closely guarded expression. Other than the corners of Mycroft's eyes squinting slightly more than normal, _worried, possibly about John, or more likely, about my reaction to John's accident_ , the man was unreadable. He was doing this purposefully, of course. With any other person, Sherlock would have already deduced the location, time, and vehicles involved in the accident.

"Fine, Mycroft. Tell me," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes,  _musn't let Mycroft know how involved I've let myself get._

The look on Mycroft's face, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips, told Sherlock that Mycroft knew  _exactly_ how  _involved_ Sherlock was with John, which was, unfortunately, not nearly as much as Sherlock had once wished to be.  _Only once though; John made his choice. I would know, I was the best man after all._

"I'll start with the most pressing information. Mary and the child are dead," Mycroft stated, his expression betraying no emotion.  _Always unattached, Mycroft._  Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling regret for not visiting more often, for not getting to know John's little one better, for refusing to acknowledge how much Mary's friendship had begun to mean to him over the past year.  _Sherlock Holmes, with two friends? Mummy would have been astounded._ He closed his eyes against the sunlight pouring through the windows of the sedan, suddenly too bright for a day that had taken two of the people he cares most about in the world.  _People he had vowed to protect_. _  
_

After granting Sherlock a moment to process the information, Mycroft continued, "John is in critical condition. He suffered a punctured lung, a subdural hematoma, a few crushed vertebrae, and various other, far milder injuries. He will be in a medically induced coma until his first surgery in a few hours." _A few hours? Clearly, Mycroft cares more about John Watson than he lets on as well_.

 _John is alive._  Sherlock released a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. 

"I know you... cared, however unwise it was, about Mary and the child. I'm sorry, Sherlock. For your loss."

Any other time, Sherlock would have rushed Mycroft through, only wanting to know information about the _crime_ , where it happened, when it happened, why the imbeciles at the Yard think it happened, not having the time to waste on unimportant factors like  _caring_. But Mary and Elizabeth have died. John may die, yet. He needs to know more about John's condition, but he can't seem to make his mind form the questions or his mouth form the words, only thinking,  _John is alive._

"Sherlock. There is no reason to add a third fatality to the list. Please do remember to breathe," Mycroft's tone was as condescending as ever, but the hand on Sherlock's shoulder was warm and strangely comforting. He squeezed his little brother’s shoulder gently, the biggest show of emotion Sherlock had seen from Mycroft since his drugged outburst about breaking hearts last Christmas.

Eyes still closed against the harsh reality of the situation, Sherlock nodded, and focused on regulating his breathing at a more respectable rate.

“We’ll be arriving at the hospital momentarily. Considering your current inability to speak, I assume you won’t object to my presence.” Sherlock knew it was a statement, rather than a question, and that Mycroft wouldn’t be leaving him alone any time soon. _He must think this makes it a danger night. Doesn’t he know by now, I can’t get high when John needs me?_

The hand on his shoulder squeezed again, and Mycroft added, quieter, “Sherlock, John is alive. We will get to see him soon. But I’d rather not explain to the nurses why you’re acting like a catatonic zombie, so please, say something before I get a shock blanket for you.”

Nodding, Sherlock took a breath and stuttered, “I- I’m not-,” _not in shock_ , his mind tried to supply, but it came out as more of a jumble of meaningless syllables than the sentence he intended.

“Words, Sherlock. Surely you remember some, from school.”

“John is alive,” Sherlock murmured, almost inaudibly.

“Yes, Sherlock. Your doctor is alive, for the time being, and I am doing everything in my power to keep it that way. I’d suggest you open your eyes. We’re here now.”

 


	2. Please Know I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events leading up to the accident that changes John's life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crash is described in this chapter. It's slightly graphic, so if that kind of thing bothers you, skip the last few paragraphs.

John was tired. 

He was tired of Elizabeth screaming at all hours of the night for the past 7 months. He was tired of Mary complaining about Elizabeth screaming at all hours of the night. He was tired of jolting himself awake after another nightmare about the fall and only getting 3 hours of sleep. His thrashing doesn't even wake Mary up anymore.

If he was being honest with himself, he might say that he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since Sherlock's return.

It was 2:30am, and John had given up on sleeping any more that night, after a particularly violent version of the fall nightmare he'd been having. He sat on the edge of his and Mary's bed, in his pants and a t-shirt, drenched in sweat and shaking slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, sighed a tired, exasperated sigh, and made his way to the kitchen by the dim light of the streetlights shining through the windows.

By 3am, John had settled himself deep into the couch that Mary picked out to match the interior design of the house that Mary loved, drank his cuppa, and was watching crappy late-night telly.

By 4am, Elizabeth was wailing again, so he changed her and brought her out to watch crappy telly with him.  _She is about as amused by Doctor Who as Sherlock is._ She falls back asleep quickly.

He hears Mary's alarm go off at 5, and decides to bring her a cuppa with breakfast in bed. He tries, again, to remind himself that she is the same woman he fell in love with, that he has forgiven her. He tries to convince her of this, with little gestures like breakfast in bed. Neither of them know how long the charade will last, but for now, they have an unspoken agreement that they will plat the part of happy husband and happy wife, and hope that time will heal the wounds Mary caused.

"John! What's all this?" She smiles, looks genuinely happy, and John wonders if she's only acting for his sake.

"Elizabeth had me up early, so I thought at least one of us should have a good morning," John chuckled, trying his best not to look as strained as he felt.

Apparently, he was doing a shit job of it.

"John, I want to talk. Sit down with me." 

Wordlessly, John makes his way to his side of the bed and places himself next to Mary, the breakfast cooling between them. He waits for Mary to start, but instead, she takes a sip of tea.

"So, what is it then?" John asks, wanting to get this out of the way and done with, as painlessly as possible. He knew this conversation would be coming, although they hadn't spoke of it since Christmas.

"John... what are we doing?"

"At the moment, we're letting breakfast go cold."

"No, John. You know that's not what I meant. What are we doing with this marriage? With our daughter? We pretend everything is fine, every day, but I can tell it's wearing on you. You barely sleep any more-"

"Not many people with 7 month old babies get enough sleep."

"Let me finish, John. It's not about Elizabeth waking us up at night. You stay in bed for a few hours, and then get up and wonder the house, doing god knows what-"

"Watching crap telly."

"And you look exhausted. You can't relax around me any more, not since you found out about my past. I can tell you're worried sick when I'm alone with Elizabeth-"

This is why John did not want to have this conversation; he knew he was going to react badly. "Oh, so it's  _a bit not good_ that I'm uncomfortable leaving my  _seven-month-old daughter_ in the hands of an assassin who bloody well shot my best friend? IS THAT IT, MARY? Or whatever your name is." _  
_

"John," Mary started, still calm, still wanting to fix the relationship she shattered, "If you can't forgive me, please just tell me. Don't drag this on. It's hurting you, and I love you. I'm hurting you. It's killing me to see this happen, so please, if you can't forgive me, just say so. We'll work it out, we'll separate. Whatever you need, John. I'm so-" her voice broke, and John glared at the tears glistening in her eyes. She cleared her voice, and began again, stronger and more sure, "I'm so sorry to have hurt you, John. I do love you. I can't stand to see you in pain."

John shook his head. He didn't know what to feel anymore. Sherlock _did_ tell him he could trust her. So why couldn't he? 

"I love you, Mary. I love you desperately, otherwise I wouldn't have tried forgiving you for so long. I try every day, but I don't know-" He shook his head again, sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know if loving you is enough. I can't trust you. I  _don't_ trust you. You were there to put me back together after Sherlock, and I owe you everything, you kept me going, you gave me a new start and a reason to go on. But I can't trust you, Mary. I love you. I can't lose you, but I think I already have."

"I'm sorry, John."

"I know." He looked at the clock, noting it was time to get Elizabeth ready for her and Mary's play date at the park with a friend from work and her baby. He was going to drop them off on his way to the clinic that morning. "I'll go dress Elizabeth. You should eat something."

"You should too, John. You're losing weight." Mary called after him, but she knew it would fall on deaf ears.

\---

After securing Elizabeth in her baby seat, Mary and John settled themselves in for the short ride to the park. The first few minutes were tense, bloated with unspoken hurt and regret. At the stop light, John looked over at his wife, at the woman he fell in love with, with her easy smile and golden hair. He reached out and took her hand, rubbing his thumb gently over her knuckles.

"I don't know, Mary. I don't know if we can work it out. But I love you. Please know I love you."

"I know, John. I love you too."

Elizabeth cooed in the back of the car, playing with her fingers

When John thinks back to this moment, he is relieved that his last words to his wife were of love than of anger. He is relieved that his daughter was happy, and not crying or hungry. He is relieved that they had one last moment, together, as a family, before he lost everything.

The light turned green, John began driving through the intersection, and someone ran a stop light. He remembers those last few seconds before the impact as if they were a feature-length movie. The light was shining through Mary's window just right to light up her eyes and skin. She was glowing. His glowing, radiant Mary. He didn't see the car coming until it was too late to floor it or swerve out of the way. The grill of the car that was going to hit them was right outside of Mary's window, and then Mary was in John's lap. He didn't hear the impact, but he felt it.

The airbag pushed him back, violently, as he slammed his head on the window. He smelt fumes and gasoline and heat, smothering him. He couldn't breathe and he felt his pulse everywhere. His vision blurred, and refocused.

He glanced down, to Mary's head resting on his hip.  _Her neck is wrong_ , he thought, but his vision was blurry again and his thoughts were fuzzy. His hands began to tingle.  _Why can't I breathe? Why isn't Elizabeth crying? Elizabeth?_ His mouth formed the words, but he only gagged and spat out blood on the deflating airbag.

He tried to turn his neck, to get a look to the backseat, but was met with searing pain shooting down his spine.  _No. Elizabeth_. He stretched his arm out, his vision darkening against the pain, and reached backwards, trying to find his daughter. He could touch her foot, just barely.  _Sticky_.

He brought his fingers back, coated with blood.  _Baby girl, it's okay, Daddy's here, I'll fix it_. He struggled again to breathe, spat out more blood, and fought against the darkness closing in on him. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. He heard shouting, distantly. He smelled smoke and burnt rubber. His head lolled forward, but he had no strength to stop it. Slumping onto the airbag, he tried to say,  _please, there's a baby, she's in the back seat, please get my baby first_ , but the hands pulling him out of the wreckage didn't hear him. His eyes closed of their own accord, surrendering to pain and lack of oxygen and loss of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments you left on my first chapter! I really appreciate the encouragement. :)


	3. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft visit John in the ICU before his surgery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I work in critical care in a hospital, so most of this medical stuff is going to be correct. I'm not doing a crap ton of research right now, so there might be a detail or two that doesn't fit. Let me know if there is something glaringly wrong that drives you crazy, and I'll fix it.

Mycroft and Sherlock approached the doorway to the ICU quickly- Mycroft, because he was used to walking briskly from meeting to meeting, and Sherlock, because he was anxious to get to John and see to it that the doctors and nurses were caring for him sufficiently. Of course, Mycroft had already brought in the best and brightest healthcare practitioners to tend to John, but Sherlock doubted they would be up to his standards.  _Few people generally are, with John being the singular, shining exception._ _  
_

"Sherlock, do make an attempt to not berate the nurses too severely. I can see you judging them from here," Mycroft muttered under his breath to his brother, who was somehow able to irritate him even without speaking.

"It isn't my fault they're all incompetent, Mycroft. Surely you could do better than the likes of  _that_ one. She hasn't slept in the same bed for more than a week in several months."

"She's a  _traveling_ nurse, Sherlock. I pay her to do that."

"Oh, Mycroft, finally found yourself a goldfish? Didn't think you'd have to stoop to such-"

"Sherlock, really. Now is not the time," Mycroft whispered, glaring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock glared back at Mycroft from the corner of his eye, as they rounded the corner and approached the clear windows and curtain that walled off John's room from the rest of the unit. Everything inside the room was hidden from view behind the curtain, but Sherlock knew there were several machines behind it, machines trusted with keeping John alive.  _The John he vowed to protect_. 

"Sherlock, I've arranged for both of us to be allowed in the room at all times, but those privileges can be revoked if you deduce the sleeping habits of every nurse on the floor, so please do try to behave yourself. For John's sake. There is a reclining chair and sofa, where I assume you will be sleeping. Or, at the very least, not pacing a hole in the floor. I'm sure you're aware that John's appearance may come to you as a shock. It is very bad, Sherlock. Prepare yourself."

"Really, Mycroft, I investigate murders for a living. I'm not squeamish."

"I'm not saying you're squeamish. I'm saying, John's condition is touch-and-go at the moment, and I want you to be prepared for him to look worse than you've ever expected to see him." Mycroft stared into his younger brother's eyes, willing him to understand the seriousness of the situation.

"Right. Alright. Well, then, let's have it." Sherlock strode forward, and yanked the curtain back with his typical Sherlockian flamboyance,  _drama queen_ , said John's voice in his head.

_Chest tube, right side. Suction. Pneumothorax. Bound ribs. 4 cracked, right side, one punctured the lung, lead to the pneumothorax. Broken right clavicle, shoulder, humerus. Severe bruising. His body was forced into the driver-side door of the car upon impact, so they were hit from the left. Mary's side. Elizabeth's side, in the back. They died on impact. Bed in reverse trendelenburg position, neck or upper spine fracture. Oh, god, is he paralyzed? No. Think. Cervical brace, cervical fracture. Burns on his wrists, forearms, and face, from the airbag. Sprained left wrist, again, airbag. Soft tissue damage from the seat belt. Thank god, for the seat belt, no. Stop. THINK. Soft tissue damage bruising at that rate... the car that hit them was going 73 kilometers per hour, it's a miracle he's alive. No, sentiment. THINK, Sherlock. 73 kilometers per hour, mid-size sedan, would have been totaled. The driver at fault is dead._

"The other driver. Drunk. Now, dead. Correct?"

"Almost, Sherlock. High, not drunk. But just as dead."

"Well, that's the important part anyway."

Until this point, Sherlock had pointedly avoided looking at John's face. He new, from the numbers on the machines, that John was breathing approximately 16 breaths per minute, had a heart rate of 102  _slightly high, though not surprising considering the recent trauma_ , an oxygenation saturation level of 95% on 4 L of oxyen, and a blood pressure of 155/90  _also high, he must be in pain_. Until he looked at John's face, Sherlock could pretend this was just another case, and this body was just another body.

Sherlock swallowed, more audibly than he intended to, and Mycroft turned to look at him. His look softened more than it had in years, realizing the correlation his brother was drawing.

"You can look, Sher. It's still John, under the swelling and the bruising. It's not Sherrinford. There is still hope for John, there wasn't for Sherrinford. He wasn't going to make it. He wouldn't have wanted to live like that. John can live. John has a chance."

Sherlock was staring at his shoes, unable to decide where to put his hands or his eyes, so Mycroft placed his palm gently on Sherlock's back, encouraging him to step forward. They had been standing in the doorway for several minutes now. As they stepped closer to John's bedside, a nurse closed the curtain behind them. Sherlock continued forward, standing close to the head of John's bed, and placed his hands on the padded bedside rail.  _Seizure precautions. Subdural hematoma._ He looked up, his eyes taking in the swollen, bruised mess of John's face.

_Intubated. Ventilator. Neck brace. Maxillary and zygomatic bones broken, no, shattered. Eyes swollen shut. Purple and blue and blood and pain. John. John's lip is split open, from smacking it on the window. His jaw is fractured. John, good, loyal, steadfast, John. There's a drain in his head, with a reddish-pink mixture of cerebrospinal fluid and blood pouring out into a drainage bag hanging from a low hook on the bed. John, with a hole in his head pulling blood off of his brain. John with a crushed face and swollen eyes and traces of blood that the aides couldn't wash off. Broken John. My sweet, loyal, blogging John._

Mycroft silently slid a chair behind Sherlock as he grew paler, guiding him to sit down at John's bedside. Mycroft stood behind Sherlock, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders,  _This is what happens when you care, little brother_. Quietly, he told Sherlock, "His craniotomy to remove the clots from the subdural hematoma is in an hour. If he is stable in recovery after that, he will be undergoing surgery on some of the vertebrae in his neck to reconstruct the ones that partially or completely shattered. There will be some hardware involved that may need to be removed at a later date. If the chest tube can resolve the pneumothorax, he won't need further surgery on his lungs. Once they take him back for surgery, it will be several hours before you can see him again, so use this time wisely."  _I hope, little brother, you know what would be wise_.

Unable to stare at John's beaten face any longer, Sherlock rested his forehead on the bed rail, letting his hands dangle over the side and brush lightly against John's hospital gown.

"John. Jo-" he choked off in a barely concealed sob. He took a deep breath, and started again, "John, you are the bravest and strongest man I know, and you will live through this. I expect nothing less. Keep that in mind. I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not leaving. I know that you know what I wanted to say to you, before I left for the mission that Moriarity so kindly interrupted. I'm sorry, I didn't say it then. I wanted to, but this isn't my area. I will tell you, properly, when you wake up. Because you will. You have to wake up, John. I'm nothing without my blogger."

Sometime during the monologue, Sherlock's hand snaked its way through the bed rails to gently hold John's hand. He delicately ran his thumb over John's bruised knuckles, taking care not to injure him further. Sherlock gave up trying to save face in front of Mycroft and cried silently into the bed rail, holding John's hand, desperately trying to convince himself that John had more than the 50% chance of survival that his mind palace was currently calculating. 

In exactly an hour, three scrub nurses came to transport John down to neurosurgery. After he left, the room seemed empty without the bed. Hollow. Sherlock allowed Mycroft to guide him to the couch, where he laid down underneath a favorite blanket Mycroft had made someone fetch from 221B. 

"I'm going to sit here with you at least until John comes back to the room, okay, Sher?"  _The second time Mycroft's used that nickname today, after 20 years of only Sherlock. Sentiment is peculiar, indeed._

"I would appreciate that, Myco," Sherlock murmured into the blanket, rolling over and facing the back of the sofa. Mycroft, not quite sure what to do with his hands after all the contact he's had with his brother today, settled for resting one hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, rubbing a gentle circle there, the way Mummy used to do when they were young.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked him, after a long while of silence, when he determined that Sherlock had no intention of sleeping until John was back within his sight.

"A bit not good, Myco. Thank you... for staying."

"Of course, little brother. You know how I worry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the helpful reviews and comments! You guys rock my socks.


	4. They're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks about his relationships with John, Mary, and Elizabeth while he and Mycroft wait for John to return from surgery. Mycroft continues to not be an ass, which is a miracle in and of itself. Much brotherly love in this chapter. Also, much angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the rest of the story thus far, things that someone is thinking will be in italics. A lot of this chapter is taking place in Sherlock's head, so that's the reason for the italics overload.

_Mary has died. Elizabeth has died. John's Mary and Elizabeth. My Mary and Elizabeth. Mary did tell her I was Uncle Sherlock, after all. Not that she would be old enough to remember that, but she always recognizes- recognized me. Elizabeth. Smart, bright, observant Elizabeth who always smiles for her Uncle Sherlock. Smiled. Always smiled, when she was alive to do so._

_Damn sentiment to hell._

_I need a cigarette._

_No. I need cocaine._

_No. I need to be here for John._

_I need to be here for John, who has lost his beautiful Mary and beautiful Elizabeth to an intoxicated moron attempting to operate a vehicle when he belongs... well, he_ is _dead, so he is where he belongs._

_I need to re-organize my mind palace to prevent these memories from taking over when comforting John. Compartmentalization. A room just for Mary and Elizabeth, that I open only when I choose to, to prevent these... outbursts._

_I certainly can't delete anything. Not the vomit or changing nappies or the time Mary accidentally leaked breast milk through her t-shirt onto my blazer when she hugged me a little to hard. Unpleasant, but important. There will be no more moments like these. They are precious. Maybe they will help John. Maybe I will need them later. We have no more moments with Mary and no more time with Elizabeth, so I must archive all of it._

_The first time I changed Elizabeth's nappy was such a disaster. I had no idea that such a tiny human could produce such a large amount of excrement. I was over for tea and Mary was fetching the biscuits and John was changing out of his clothes from the clinic, so Mary said, "Sherlock, could you be a dear, and get Elizabeth cleaned up. I've spilled the tea and have my hands full. She'll be wailing soon. The nappies are just in the cabinet, there." I couldn't have possibly said no to Mary, especially not with the threat of a wailing Elizabeth. The child can make such a racket._

_Could. The child could make such a racket._

_John walked in on Elizabeth and I half-way through operation nappy change, and I don't think I have ever heard him laugh so boldly. He startled the both of us, causing me to drop the excrement-filled nappy that I had managed to wrangle her out of, straight on to my shoes. John gleefully now refers to this incident as The Case of the Nappy Bomb. I remain unamused, although the sound of John's laughter and sight of Mary's smile was worth the loss of my favorite shoes._

_Sentiment has changed me. I think it may be for the better. Sentiment gave me my John, though not the way I wanted him, but that gave me Mary and Elizabeth. Sentiment gave me a family. John gave me a family._

_Mycroft is wrong. Sentiment will not destroy me. Sentiment has given me everything worth being alive for. Sentiment has broken me and built me back up again. The loss of Mary and Elizabeth will not destroy me. I will not allow it to destroy John. It will not destroy us._

_It was much easier for me to forgive Mary for shooting me, because she saved my life, and because she had not lied to me about her entire life. John has not forgiven Mary. Now Mary is dead. There are no more chances for forgiving. John will surely have a problem with this._

_Mary, the one who let me steal her husband away in the dead of the night to solve murders, the cleverest Watson, the one who killed me and saved my life all with the same bullet. Mary, who persuaded John to forgive me after my absence, when I deserved nothing more than the punches he threw at me. Mary, who let me help plan the wedding and made sure I wouldn't be left out. Mary, who knew I loved John. Mary, who let me love John. Mary, who encouraged John to spend more time with me, to solve cases with me, to invite me over for tea, to let me play with Elizabeth. Mary, who made a place for me in their small, broken family, with all of their trust issues and all of my dysfunction. Mary, who made me Uncle Sherlock. Mary, who was my closest friend aside from John. Mary, who was my friend._

_Mary, who was my friend, is dead._

_My friend. My friend is dead._

"Sherlock, shhh. Calm down. You're going to wake someone. It's getting late. There are other rooms on the unit, brother, mine." Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him over to face him.

"Here," Mycroft said, awkwardly stuffing a handkerchief into Sherlock's trembling hand. "Wipe your face."

"I... I'm sorry, Mycroft, I know... I know sentiment isn't... Isn't your area. It's just... Mary was my friend, Myco. She was my closest friend, besides John, and she's gone. And Elizabeth was so bright, she had such a future, and-" a sob caught him off guard, since he had managed making it this far by crying mostly silently and motionlessly, hoping Mycroft would ignore this obscene display of emotion.

"Sher, I know. They were family to you. Just as close as family. Closer than most of ours, really. Closer than I am to you. I'm sorry, for that. You are correct, this isn't really my area. But... I am trying here, Sher. I'm not going to walk out on you just because you're feeling something."

"You have before. You did after Sherrinford."

"I... I know. I am sorry."

Sherlock turned over properly, and rested back on his elbows to face his brother, curiously. "Is that why you decided sentiment wasn't an advantage? After Sherrinford?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, lowered his head, and whispered "Yes, Sher. I'm sorry I left you so alone."

"I understand though. I understand why. It was wrong of them to fight like that in front of you."

"It was reality. They did me a favor by not shielding me from the worst of it."

"I wouldn't consider arguing about discontinuing the life support of a 15-year-old's brother right in front of the 15-year-old a favor, Myco," Sherlock said with an unusual softness.

"I'm sorry about your friend, Sherlock. And the baby. Even if I don't show it well, or have friends of my own."

"They're gone, Myco. They're gone, and I'll never get to teach Elizabeth about the periodic table or have a cuppa with Mary or-" and with that, Sherlock was weeping again, his hand over his face and Mycroft's handkerchief doing very little to stem the flow of his tears.

Mycroft could count on one hand the times he had seen his brother cry, outside of acting for a case. Considering this, he had very little experience in consoling a crying Sherlock.  _What is it that people do? What did Mummy do? I can't very will sit him in my lap and read pirate stories. I could... hug him? I suppose._

"Sher, it's okay. Come here." And with that, Mycroft pulled a very surprised Sherlock against his chest and held him tightly. Startled but touched by the sudden physical show of affection, Sherlock rested his forehead on Mycroft's shoulder, and wept for the loss of his friend and the child of the man he loves. "Shh, shh. That's it. It's alright. Slow breaths. It's alright."

When Sherlock quieted, and Mycroft felt him start to doze on his shoulder, he gently laid his younger brother back down on the sofa.

"Myco?"

"Yes?"

"Wake me when he's back."

"Of course, Sherlock. Get some rest now. You'll need it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be less crying next chapter. I think it's getting a little old.


	5. Breathe Through It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up from surgery, and Sherlock tells him what happened. Mycroft eats Chinese take-away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some use of colorful language in this chapter.

Sherlock awoke to the mechanical sounds of a hospital bed being repositioned, IV drips running, the steady low suction of a chest tube, and surgical nurses giving John Watson's post-operative report to the Neuro-ICU nurses.

"...slightly hypotensive post-extubation, but his pressure went right back up to normal when he started spontaneously respiring. Chest tube remains intact, but pneumothorax is slowly resolving itself. The surgeon decided on no further pulmonary surgery at this time, but page him if he stops progressing. Hardware placed in his C3, C4, and C5 successfully; spinal cord remains intact and extremities positive for sensation and reflex. Three clots successfully removed from the dura of his superior parietal lobe; drain remains in place; be sure to monitor for excessive drainage because he already drained 30cc's in recovery. Surgery scheduled in two days for subdural drain removal. His chest tube is cleared to be removed on-floor once the pneumothorax is resolved. Head of the bed needs to remain at 30 degrees until the drain is removed and the subdural hematoma is reassessed by the surgeon. Neuro checks ordered for Q1 hour for the first 4 hours after surgery, then Q2 hours until tomorrow. Q4 after tomorrow, until reassessed by the surgeon. Q2 vitals. The anesthesia will be wearing off within the next hour or two. All in all, Mr. Watson is a very lucky man and should recover well."

"Dr. Watson."

Startled, the nurses turned their eyes to the men sitting on the sofa for the first time. Sherlock, sitting with his legs propped up and his back against the arm of the sofa, with Mycroft perched on the edge, near Sherlock's knees.

"He's a doctor. He is _Doctor_ Watson. And he most certainly is not a lucky man, considering he just lost his wife and newborn daughter on the same day, and nearly lost his own life in the process," Sherlock spat at the nurses, venom dripping from his voice.

"Please, excuse my brother, he's had a bit of a shock."

"No, no, he's perfectly right. Excuse us. You must be Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. I was simply meaning that he is expected to recover well."

"Maybe next time you should try saying _only_ what you mean."

" _Sherlock_ ," Mycroft warned. Sherlock glared.

"Yes, I certainly will, Mr. Holmes. Excuse me, I'll be checking Dr. Watson's vitals now and assessing his surgical sites. I assume you already know his status from listening to the report?"

"You assume correctly. Surprising, considering the limited functional capacity of your brain."

" _Sherlock. Manners._ "

"Excuse me. You're right, great job, gold star."

Unamused, the nurse turned back to her patient, recorded John's vital signs, _blood pressure 123/82, perfect, heart rate 90, high but acceptable, temperature 36.6, excellent, respirations 19, slightly shallow_ , inspected his surgical sites, measured the output from his foley catheter and subdural drain, and addressed the Holmes brothers once more before she left, saying, "I'll be back in an hour. If he wakes before then, ring the call bell."

Sherlock barely noticed her leave, staring intently at John, _John is alive and he does not know. He will wake up, and someone will need to tell him. I will need to tell him that Mary and Elizabeth are gone. Are dead. And that he must grieve, again, twice as much. John is alive. John._

Meanwhile, Mycroft had pulled the chair close to John's bedside. "Sherlock, come sit with him. He'll be awake soon. You know how distressing it is to wake up after anesthesia in an unfamiliar place. We don't need him pulling out his IV or chest tube."

Sherlock stood up, rather quickly, as per usual, but this time he swayed slightly and placed one hand down on the sofa to steady himself.

"When is the last time you ate, Sherlock?"

"Irrelevant."

"No, Sherlock, not irrelevant. You're not going to be strong for John when you are swaying as if you are drunk every time you stand."

Sherlock had moved to the chair by this time. "Orthostatic hypotension, Mycroft. Transport. Irrelevant."

"I'm going to get us food. I'll let you and John have some time. You will eat something when I return."

"Doubtful."

"I'll return shortly, Sherlock."

"...Please do, Mycroft. Clearly the nurses need someone of power around to control them."

Mycroft left, _surely in want of cake,_ and Sherlock rested his head on John's bedrail, much as he had before the surgeries. He reached through the gap in the rails, wrapping his hand solidly around John's limp one. He ran his thumb over the back of John's bruised knuckles, and quietly began humming the waltz he composed for John and Mary's wedding. _Wake up John, I need you_.

As he reached the climax of the waltz, he felt John's fingers twitch underneath his own, and a soft half-moan, half-grunt escape from John's raw throat.

"John, you're waking up from anesthesia. It's alright. Take your time." Sherlock murmured, ringing the call bell for the nurse.

"Is he waking up?" the nurse asked while entering the room.

"Obviously, he-"

John took in a deeper breath, winced in pain, and let out another hoarse moan.

"-he did that."

"Alright. That's normal, just keep talking to him. I'll fetch a glass of water and do his neuro assessment when I return."

"John, it’s Sherlock. It’s okay. Your nurse is getting you some water for your throat. You were intubated. You’re in the hospital.”

“Sh-lo…?” John attempted the name, but his mouth was fuzzy and dry and his throat felt like it had been rubbed raw.

“Shh, John, wait to speak until you have some water. Try to open your eyes.”

John slightly cracked one eyelid, and quickly let it close again against the bright fluorescent lighting of his hospital room.

“Oh, right, let me fix that…” Sherlock murmured, reaching above John’s head to dim the overhead light and turn on a less-harsh wall mounted lamp. With the lighting situation remedied, John slowly cracked his eyes open, although they couldn’t open very wide due to the swelling anyway. Both men looked up at the nurse as she bustled back into the room with a glass of water for John and her mobile workstation.

“John, I see you’re awake.”

“ _Dr. Watson_. His name is _Dr. Watson_.”

“Right, well, Dr. Watson, I’m Erin, your nurse for the day. I’m here to do a neurological assessment on you, but I’m sure you’re quite disoriented. Let’s get this out of the way and then I’ll let Mr. Holmes explain the situation…?” Erin glanced at Sherlock, and he offered her a small nod in confirmation, _Obviously it would be better for him to hear the news about the death of his wife and child from someone he knows and trusts, not some traveling nurse that Mycroft procured from god-knows-where_.

“Wadur?” John managed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his cottony mouth awkwardly.

“Yes, of course.” Erin reached over to hold the straw to John’s mouth, but Sherlock snatched it out of her hands and gently nestled the straw between John’s lips himself. John’s eyes were starting to droop again though, and he looked as if he was about to nod off again.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, “I’ve got some water here for you. Drink through the straw,” and John drew some of the cool liquid into his parched mouth and burning throat, sighing in relief.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it, John?”

“Mm. Yeah,” John’s voice was barely audible, but Sherlock’s heart clenched to hear him speak nonetheless.

“Alright, now Dr. Watson, I’ll be doing these neuro checks every hour for the next four hours, and then less frequently throughout the night. Are you ready? Are you in any severe pain?”

“Mm, no, pain’s manageable about now, you’ve got me on something good for it. Go ahead with it.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital. Dunno which one.”

“Right. St. Bart’s.”

“Do you know what year it is?”

“2014.”

“Right. Who’s the Prime Minister?”

“Cameron.”

“Good. Your name and date of birth?”

“John Hamish Watson. September 8, 1971.”

“Okay, fine, now I’m going to shine this light into your eyes, let me know if there’s any pain,” Erin said, producing a penlight from her pocket to check John’s pupil reactivity. “Good, good, follow the light with your eyes, alright, excellent.”

John winced, closing his eyes as she turned off the penlight. “Um, pain with that. Headache… ugh, a little nausea.”

“Okay, that’s expected, since you’ve had some serious head trauma, take some breaths in through your nose and out your mouth. In and out. There, good. Nausea going away?”

“Mm. Yeah. What in the hell…”

“John, I’ll explain everything when she’s finished the assessment. Calm down, your heart rate just went up 15 beats a minute.”

“I… okay, okay. Fine. But I’m keeping my eyes closed for the rest.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Dr. Watson. Push your free arm up against my hands. Great. Now your legs. Okay hold your right leg in the air for 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, okay great. Left leg, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, good. Looks great. We’ll keep monitoring the photophobia and nausea, but the rest of your neuro is perfect. Would you like me stay in case you have any questions about your medical status while Mr. Holmes explains why you're here?”

“Please leave now, Erin, John and I need some privacy,” Sherlock snapped, coldly, not looking forward to the imminent conversation.

“Sherlock, really,” John shot him as stern a look as he could with his swollen and bruised face, “Thanks, Erin, I’m alright, I’m sure Sherlock remembers everything that’s been said within his earshot. I’ll ring the bell if you’re needed.”

“Right, well, see you gentlemen in an hour. Dr. Watson, you’ve got a PCA here with morphine if you need it, here’s the button,” Erin said, handing John the button as she walked briskly out of the room.

“Sherlock. Please tell me what the bloody hell is going on.”

“Let me explain your medical condition first. You suffered a subdural hematoma and you have a drain in your skull at the moment, take care not to jostle it too much. Pneumothorax, which is slowly resolving itself with the help of a chest tube. Let’s not jostle that, either. Broken vertebrae in your neck, which have a couple screws and metal rods in it at this point. Broken right clavicle, shoulder, and humerus, as you can tell from the splinting and immobilizer. Several broken bones in your face, including a fractured jaw, though they didn’t need to wire it shut or anything so heinous.” Sherlock looked more nervous than John had seen him since Baskerville, which was worrying.

“Okay, so... wow. I’m pretty banged up. What the fuck happened, Sherlock? Why isn't Mary here? Who's watching Elizabeth?”

“John, do you remember anything from today? Try and remember what happened” Sherlock asked quietly, searching John’s face for any hint of recollection.

“I was… Mary and Elizabeth had a play date, and I had to work," He paused, struggling to remember the morning through his morphine and pain induced haze. "We were on our way… and. Oh.” John’s pupils were wide with alarm, and he looked up at Sherlock, not wanting to think about the memory of the impact.

“Where’s Elizabeth? We were hit from her side. Did they send her to St. Barts too? How is she doing? I need to speak with her doctor. See her file. How bad is she?” The words rushed breathlessly from John’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. He struggled to sit up, and Sherlock gently guided him back down in bed.

“John, I need you to relax and take some steady breaths. You’re not getting out of bed, not while you’ve got bloody tubes in your head and your lungs and your bladder. You’re tachycardic. Breathe. Slow down. I’ll explain everything.”

“Mm. Right. Okay. Breathing.” John said, impatiently following Sherlock’s orders.

Sherlock looked at John, bit his lip, and then looked at the floor.

“Sherlock, God help me, if you don’t tell me what the hell has happened to my baby girl, I will strangle you with my IV line.”

Sherlock looked up at John, slowly, with tears in his eyes. _God,_   _I haven’t cried this much since Sherrinford. This is a disaster. Keep it together. You are about to deliver devastating news to John Watson. He needs your support. Keep. It. Together._

“She’s gone, John. Elizabeth and Mary died on impact. It was quick and they didn’t suffer. But they’re gone. They’re dead, John.”

John stared at Sherlock, and then he closed his eyes, pushing his head back into the pillow, as if he could press himself through the bed and onto the floor. He focused on taking slow breaths, knowing his lung could re-collapse if he started hyperventilating. _God, no. God, god, no._ He was dimly aware of Sherlock’s hand on his own, and he grasped it tightly, the only anchor he had in his life that had turned upside down in the course of a single day.

“Good, you’re doing fine, keep breathing slowly. Let’s keep your heart rate down, okay? I don’t want your blood pressure to get too high.”

“Oh, god. Oh god, Sherlock. Oh god. Oh god, no.”

“Shhh, John. Don’t talk, just breathe. Breathe through it.”

“Breathe through it, my fucking baby girl... my baby girl is dead and you WANT ME TO BREATHE THROUGH IT?!”

Mycroft, who had been standing in the doorway unnoticed for several minutes with Chinese take-away, spoke up, “Surely, you could have handled this better, brother, mine.”

If looks could kill, no one would have had any doubts about Mycroft's fate at that moment. John and Sherlock glared at him with an intensity that Mycroft had seen very few times in his life, sobering him.

“Apologies. John, I’m so sorry for your loss. Forgive my tactlessness.” With that, Mycroft retired to the sofa, pulled up a tray table, and began eating an egg roll.

John simply closed his eyes, screwing his face into a grimace of pain, and pushed himself backwards into his pillow again. “God _damn_ it,” he whispered. Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s fist, and all at once, the anger and energy drained out of John. He felt so tired and heavy. Tears slipped from underneath his eyelids of their own accord, but he didn’t even have the energy to make a sound.

Sherlock studied John, _my John, completely and utterly defeated in the face of overwhelming loss. For the second time, devastated. After you vowed to protect all three of them._

“John,” Sherlock started, his voice rough and unsure, “I’m not sure what to do to help you. I want to but… everything I can think of doing seems inadequate. Tell me what you need.”

John pried his eyes open with what looked like enormous effort, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I… I don’t know. Elizabeth is… Oh, god. She’s- They’re both- I…” John closed his eyes again, pressing the button on his PCA, took a deep breath, and made eye contact with Sherlock once again. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said weakly, “Please just don’t let go of my hand. Stay right here. I need… I need something to hold on to…”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock whispered back, although John was already drifting back into the sea of unconsciousness. On impulse, wanting to be closer to John, to provide him comfort through proximity, Sherlock reached down and pulled the lever to lower the bedrail. He grasped John’s right hand strongly in his left, moved his chair closer to the bedside, and gingerly laid his head down on John’s lap, his right hand resting lightly on John’s knee.

John, apparently still awake, though just barely, murmured an appreciative sound and brought his left hand around to rest in Sherlock’s hair.

_ This will not destroy John Watson. This will not destroy me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the majority of the week in the hospital with some cardiac issues, so I'm a tad bit loopy/exhausted/generally feeling like crap. Hopefully this chapter doesn't reflect that quite as much as I expect it will.


	6. What Either of us Thought Would Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dreams about an afternoon he spent with Elizabeth and Sherlock while under the influence of the morphine.

John felt himself slowly drifting away from reality as he tangled his fingers in the comforting softness of Sherlock's dark curls. He knows he can't avoid the situation forever, but his body is beaten down, and there are painkillers in his system, and the anesthesia hasn't completely worn off yet, so he welcomes the inevitable and falls into a dream of a happier time.

\---

Sherlock smiled a grand, genuine smile as John crossed the threshold to 221B with a 4-month-old Elizabeth Watson in his arms. John would have expected Sherlock to be bored by babies, but he is enamored with Elizabeth. And, if he's going to be honest, John loves the way Sherlock's face lights up when he sees her. He takes the baby when Mary has her "girl's day out" twice a month, and they visit Sherlock. 

"How long has she been sleeping, John? You know how Mary gets when we alter her sleep schedule."

"You and Mary, always with the sleep schedule. She's a baby. She doesn't have a sleep schedule any more than she has a poop schedule."

"Because you let her nap every time you take a cab, John! Let me see her, hello Elizabeth, Uncle Sherlock says it's time to wake up now," Sherlock gingerly lifted the child's form from her father's arms and rubbed his nose to her's when she opened her eyes, still smiling as he had when John had walked through the door. Elizabeth cooed at him, and Sherlock positively glowed.

"You're going to love my new experiment, Elizabeth," Sherlock continued, walking over to the coffee table and sofa, where a jar of something suspicious caught John's eye.

"Sherlock, don't expose my baby to any dangerous chemicals. Or moulds. Or..."

"Please, John, as if I would do something to endanger Elizabeth's life. I've simply improved the formula for play dough. You know how she loves to squeeze things? Now it won't crumble," Sherlock said, scooping out an amount perfectly shaped for Elizabeth's tiny fist. She squeezed it, and cooed delightedly.

"Don't let her put it in her mouth."

"I'm not an idiot, John."

"I'm just saying, she hasn't been introduced to solid foods yet, and-"

"John. It's alright. I know she's not eating solid foods yet. I'll watch her. She won't choke. She is fine. She is squeezing some dough and discovering that she has fingers, and everything is fine. Sit down. Drink your tea."

"I... right. Okay. Thanks." And with that, John sat, in his chair that Sherlock had brought back into the living room after a short absence. 

Elizabeth gurgled and smiled, Sherlock showing her how to move her fingers in the tiny wad of dough he had made for her.

Sherlock caught John up on the cases that he had taken since John's last visit, and John caught Sherlock up on the milestones Elizabeth had reached in the past two weeks. They laughed about the latest insults Sherlock had hurled at Sally Donovan, and about the time on Monday when a sleep-deprived John accidentally poured breast milk into his tea instead of cow's milk.

Elizabeth had fallen asleep again, at her proper napping time, and Sherlock looked at John seriously.

"John, I never thought such a tiny human could be so much more interesting than the ones our size."

John smiled, looking at the man he once thought he loved, holding the sleeping daughter of the woman he once thought he knew. Sherlock must have seen something in his eyes, because he smiled fondly back at John, and said, "I know it's hard, John. It isn't what either of us thought would happen. But it's wonderful, too. Elizabeth is wonderful, and observant, and intelligent, just like her father." By the end of his rather uncharacteristic dive into the world of emotional conversations, Sherlock had switched his gaze back to Elizabeth's tiny face, and ran his hand across the downy blonde hair that had sprouted from her head.

"Just like her father, eh, Sherlock? I don't think I've ever heard you call me observant."

"Well, compared to  _me_ , you aren't. But compared to the rest of the general populace, I'm comfortable describing you as such."

John chuckled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate."

"Anytime." Their eyes met for a moment, both wondering what could have been between them, neither recognizing how similar their thoughts were.

"Well... it's about time we get going, I think. Mary wants us home for dinner."

"Of course. It was lovely seeing her, as always. And you too, John." Their hands brushed as Sherlock handed the baby back to John, and Elizabeth started to wake with the shift.

"Good morning, baby girl. Time to go home to see Mommy. Say goodbye to Uncle Sherlock." John said, talking in the nearly-universal voice first-time fathers use when speaking to their newborn daughters.

It was after that, that the dream went downhill. 

John and Elizabeth got in to the cab, and suddenly he was back in the car with Mary, with another car hurtling towards them, and Mary's neck was wrong and Elizabeth had been ripped from his arms...

\---

 _John. John. It's alright, John,_ "Wake up. It's okay. Shhh, it's a nightmare, John, you're going to aggravate your chest tube. Breathe slowly. It's okay, you're safe, I'm right here, we're in the hospital. It's just a nightmare, John."

John took a moment to collect himself and realized in the back of his mind that Sherlock's hands were on his shoulders, both thumbs rubbing gentle circles through his hospital gown.

"It's not. It's not a nightmare, Sherlock. This is the nightmare." John managed to say, before exhaustion and morphine overtook him once more.


	7. Drop the Pretense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock have a heart-to-heart, Virgin to Iceman. Awkwardness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly dialogue. Sorry if it reads choppy.

Sherlock sighed, resting his head back down on John's lap as the doctor fell back into his morphine slumber. He inhaled, and instead of smelling the comforting scent of John,  _of tea and biscuits and adrenaline_ , he was assaulted with the odor of the room,  _of bleached hospital sheets, antiseptic, and the faintest hint of burnt rubber that hung in the bit of John's hair that hadn't been shaven off_.

_What do I do? Where do we go from here?_

"I don't know either, Sherlock," Mycroft answered his thoughts from across the room.

"I didn't ask you for a reason, Mycroft. Clearly, if you knew, you would have said so by now."

"Clearly."

The brothers lapsed into silence once more, neither knowing any words that would make the situation better. Sherlock focused on the sounds of John's usually steady breaths while he deduced the happenings at the nurses station down the hall from the footsteps he could hear beyond John's curtain. Mycroft busied himself with answering diplomatic emails and preventing what he considered minor political issues from escalating to war.

I period of time later that Sherlock could only measure by the number of times the nurse had come back to check on John,  _three, each for a neuro check and to empty drains or start new IVs, everything seems to be going well_ , Mycroft spoke again.

"Sherlock, eat something."

"Dull."

"Sherlock. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion. Eat. Something.  _Now._ "

Sherlock lifted his head and shot Mycroft a glare that could melt the Arctic. Luckily for the both of them, the Iceman could withstand even the highest temperatures from the solar flare that is Sherlock Holmes.

"That didn't work on Mummy, and it won't work on me. You need to take care of yourself, so you can take care of John."

"If it will stifle your obsessive pestering, brother mine. Egg roll." Sherlock held out his hand, the way he used to when he wanted John to bring him a pen from across the apartment, or fish his mobile out of his pocket. An egg roll was shortly deposited into his palm, and he brought it to his mouth and took a bite, without raising his head from John's lap.

"'Appy, Mycof?" Sherlock asked, mouth full of questionable, fried Chinese take-away.

"Ecstatic," Mycroft returned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The fell back into their uneasy silence as Sherlock finished chewing. 

"What am I going to do?" Sherlock voiced the question this time, somber, not expecting an answer.

Mycroft studied his brother, unsure of what to say. So few were the moments that both of them were at a loss, that he was generally unprepared when the situation occurred. He thought for several moment, contemplating the options.

"You're going to take John home. To his and Mary's home, or to 221B, whichever is comfortable for him. I'll arrange for care for him so that he can be discharged from the hospital sooner. You're going to put him back together again, the same way Mary put him back together after your death. You're going to fuss over him and watch crappy telly with him until you feel as if your brain is going to leak out of your ears. You won't take any more cases until he's ready, except for cases you can solve from home. You're going to mourn with him. You're going to become even more of a victim to sentiment than you are already. But, I'm sure, you could have figured out all of that on your own."

"Then what else are you trying to say, Mycroft? There's something else."

"Surely, little brother, I needn't spell it out for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But you have always gained so much pleasure from doing so."

"Sherlock, you're going to have to tell him. None of that 'Sherlock is a girl's name' nonsense. You can't beat around the bush any longer. He deserves to know, and you deserve to be able to tell him. Maybe not right now, but eventually. Soon."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sherlock, please, drop the pretense. It's not flattering."

"There's no pretense."

"You're in love with him."

Sherlock raised his hear from John's lap, and stared at his brother raw, vulnerable eyes.

"What would you know about love, Mycroft? The Iceman lecturing The Virgin about love. Irene would be beside herself."

"I know enough about it to see it in your eyes when you look at him, Sherlock."

"When did you get so soft, Mycroft? And I'm not talking about your waistline."

"Stop deflecting. We're talking about this."

"Why? Why are you suddenly so interested? Is it that John is finally deemed good enough for your young, naive, little brother? Is it that you take pleasure in having the detriments of sentiment proven so obviously? You want to rub in my face how I've fallen so far down the proverbial slippery slope of _feeling_ that I have no chance of dragging myself back up?"

"Sherlock, no, don't flatter yourself with such drama. While I maintain that you're correct when you say that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, and that by that definition, you are most certainly  _losing_ , I also once said that John Watson could be the making of you. It appears that I was right."

"Explain yourself."

"That's hardly necessary. We both know the thought of returning to John is what kept you alive in Serbia."

"It certainly wasn't you." _Mycroft, please don't talk about Serbia. I still feel the whip when I sleep._

"No, it did take me a regrettably long time to extract you. But I did keep you alive  _after_ Serbia, if you remember."

"Unfortunately."

"So, there it is. Sentiment. It's broken your heart, but kept you alive. Such a contradiction. It isn't something either of us handle well. But John, he thrives on sentiment. He practically breathes it."

"He's a soldier, Mycroft. And a doctor. He's hardly a slave to his emotions."

"I'm not saying he's a slave to it. But it's an integral part of his life, Sherlock. He needs it, especially now, with his wife and child dead."

"So, you, Mycroft Holmes, are telling me that I should tell John that I love him, because the delusion of a life with him kept me from giving up while being tortured in Serbia, and because he  _practically breathes_ sentiment."

"Yes."

"Mycroft, have you found my stash?"

"Sherlock. I'm being serious."

"I can hardly tell anymore! For years, you preach against sentiment, against feelings, against love. And now, you've suddenly changed your tune, and I can't seem to figure out what your angle is. What do you have at stake here? What's the motivation? Why are you manipulating me?"

"There's no angle, Sherlock. I want to see you happy." Mycroft sighed, "I worry, constantly, that I've damaged you somehow, by convincing you to ignore how you feel. I am sorry. We are not the same in this regard. It seems... I miscalculated. It seems that sentiment, despite the pain it has caused you, has also helped you grow into the man you are today. A good, brave man of strong values and morals. A man I'm... proud... to say is my brother."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, incredulous, his mouth slightly open and eyes unblinking.  _It's like that movie John made me watch once, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Someone has snatched Mycroft's brain and is controlling his body, making it say these things._

"You're serious."

"Obviously."

"I... I will need some time to process this, Myco."

"That's fine, Sherlock. Just don't forget, John will need your comfort. I know he'd appreciate you being forthright and honest with your feelings."

"I'll need to figure it out first."

"You have time. Just don't squander it. You two may not get many more chances."

Sherlock nodded briefly, and then laid his head back down on John's lap, and waited for his blogger to wake.  _We will weather this storm together, John._ _Even if Mycroft has lost his mind._ _  
_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! And the kudos! I love all of you, almost as much as Sherlock loves John.


	8. Doctors are the Worst Patients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides he's leaving the hospital. Sherlock texts. Mycroft makes arrangements behind the scenes.

Sherlock's back was sore. He'd been leaning over the side of the bed resting his head on John's thighs, _John Watson makes an excellent pillow,_ for far too long now, but he simply couldn't bring himself to move. Whether or not that was due to the inevitable pain of stretching his long-static muscles or if it was because he had gotten too familiar with the feeling of John's warmth on his face, he wasn't sure, and he wasn't particularly in the mood to dwell on it anyway.

Mycroft had left shortly after their talk, _there is no way he was being serious,_  and Sherlock and John had been mostly alone for the rest of the evening and the better part of the next morning.  _I must admit, that nurse has done an excellent job with keeping John stable and free of pain._

John woke when the nurse came in to assess him through the night, but fell quickly back to sleep with barely a word to her or Sherlock. Around 11 in the morning, Sherlock felt John begin to stir of his own volition since he first woke up from the anesthesia.

"Mmph. Sherlock?"

"Right here," Sherlock said, turning his head to look at John's face properly. John was fighting the painkillers he was on, blinking back his heavy eyelids. Sherlock could see the pain register on John's face as the reality of the situation came back to him all at once. John took in a steady, deep breath, deliberately opened his eyes fully, and assumed an expression that Sherlock knew John had learned by seeing too many deaths at war.  _Forced indifference, to cover up the pain of loss. Sentiment is a contradiction, indeed._

"Text Mycroft. Tell him they are getting these damned tubes out of my body and discharging me  _today_."

"Your sub-dural drain isn't scheduled to be removed until tomorrow, John."

"I don't care. My assessments are all fine, my vitals are all fine, and it hasn't drained any extra fluid since the last time they woke me up,"  _Oh, so he had been paying more attention than he let on_ , "They can remove it today. I can tell you right now the chest tube could have come out ages ago, the pneumothorax resolved sometime last night. And I swear to god, Sherlock, you do not want to know what I will do if they don't get this fucking catheter out of me  _right now_."

"John, I know they always say doctors are the worst patients, but you really should wait until-"

"I don't give a  _flying rat's ass_ what I _should_ do. Text Mycroft. I am leaving today and you can either help me or not." _  
_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that, _we both know I will help you John, for goodness sake's,_ and sent Mycroft a text.

**John has informed me he is leaving today. Schedule the sub-dural drain and chest tube removals for today. -SH**

"I'm ringing the call bell for the nurse to come in here to take this catheter out. I don't suppose I can talk you into leaving the room?"

"Brilliant deduction, John."

"Oh, shut it."

**It is scheduled for tomorrow. Standard procedure. 48 Hours. -MH**

"What is he saying?"

"He's being obstinate. I'll handle it."

"Ta."

**Reschedule it. We're leaving today. He's a doctor, he can make the decision. -SH**

**He is not his own doctor, brother. I will speak with his surgeon. -MH**

**Please do. I doubt you want me speaking with him. -SH**

"Dr. Watson, what can I do for you?" John's day nurse asked, coming around the curtain to stand at the foot of the bed.

"I'd like the catheter out. And the morphine dose lowered. My pneumothorax is resolved; let them know so they can remove the chest tube. And I expect my neurosurgeon to be here shortly to remove the sub-dural drain, so probably prep me for that also. Then Sherlock's taking me home."

The nurse narrowed her eyes and raised an eyebrow, but had the sense to hold her tongue. "I'll speak with your physician and see about all of that."

Within the hour, the catheter and chest tube were removed and John was being wheeled down to neurosurgery to have the sub-dural drain extracted.  _Mycroft really does come in handy sometimes_.

In another three hours, John was waking up from anesthesia again, disoriented and confused, with a Holmes brother standing on either side of his bed. "Mmmhf... 'Lisbeth..."

Sherlock squeezed the hand he'd been holding for the better part of 30 minutes. "John. You're in the hospital. You've just come out of surgery."

"Sh'lock?"

"Right here, John. It's alright. I've got some water for you," Sherlock said, holding the straw to John's lips so he could sip the cold, soothing liquid.

In another hour, John was awake, deemed neurologically stable, and getting a lecture from his nurse about leaving the hospital against medical advice.

"Listen, I'm a doctor, I know. Just give me the papers to sign." And with just a few more arguments from his nurse, an explanation from Mycroft about the on-call physician he had somehow procured for John snort-notice, and a stack of papers waiving the hospital of any liability, John was ready to go home. It hadn't occurred to him that he wasn't exactly sure  _where_ home was.  _I can't go back to my home with Mary and Elizabeth. It isn't home anymore._  Thinking this jarred him slightly, and he looked up at Sherlock to see what the detective was doing. As it turned out, the detective was deducing him.

"We can go back to Baker Street, if that suits you. I've had Mycroft bring an assortment of your clothing and toiletries. You don't need to make any long-term arrangements right now. You're welcome as long as you want, as always."

John visibly relaxed for just a moment, before another thought came to his mind. "We're on the second floor. And my room is above that."

"I've had a chair lift installed. Though I was planning on locating you in my bedroom, considering it has a bathroom and-"

"Wait. Sherlock. You've- you've what? You didn't even ask- Sherlock, you can't just go assuming."

"Can't I? I was right," Sherlock countered, sounding slightly indignant. 

"Yes, well... Ta, then. Help me get dressed?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the elder Holmes and said, "Mycroft, thanks for everything, but get out. I know you've read all of my military and medical files and god knows what else, but I'm drawing the line at you seeing me in just pants."

"Quite right," Mycroft said, and then addressed his brother. "Sherlock, you know how to reach me if the two of you need anything. Remember what we spoke about."

Mycroft ducked out of the curtain, leaving Sherlock and John alone, with Sherlock holding a small pile of John's clothing and looking everywhere but at John.

"Sherlock, really. As if I haven't seen you walk around the flat stark naked hundreds of times. You went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, for christ's sake. You don't get to be shy now. Get over here and help me get my trousers on."

Sherlock, looking displeased that John called him out, knelt down to lower the bed rails on one side of John's bed. He stood back up, calculating the best way to maneuver the doctor to the side of the bed, but John was already attempting to throw his feet down and force himself into a sitting position.

"Jesus CHRIST, god damn..." a litany of curses flew out of John's mouth as he was assaulted with more pain than he had anticipated.

"John, you really shouldn't have had them lower your morphine dose," Sherlock chided, as he bent down slightly to support John, who now had his feet on the ground, but was resting his forehead in the middle of Sherlocks' sternum, gripping the sides of the detective's shirt with white knuckles, and fiercely holding back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself and muttered, "It's fine."

He let go of Sherlock's shirt after a moment, and Sherlock guided him into a pair of soft sweatpants one leg at a time. "I'll help you stand when you're ready, just hold on to me and I'll pull them up, alright?"  _If John thought people would talk after the pool incident, I wonder what he thinks they'd say about this._

John sighed, resigned to the fact that he couldn't even pull up his own damn sweatpants. He braced himself, not knowing how much standing was going to hurt, but certainly not looking forward to it after his adventure with sitting on the side of the bed. "Alright, let's get it over with," he said, as he circled his good arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock placed one steady arm under John's armpits and held the waistband with the other.

"On the count of three, John. One. Two. Three," Sherlock said, hoisting John to his feet and immediately holding all of his weight. John was no stranger to pain, but what he felt now rivaled the gunshot wound that had invalidated him from Afghanistan. He felt a searing, red-hot pain where his ribs were broken, his shoulder screamed from holding on to Sherlock so tightly, and he felt as if his neck was being sawed in half. He was dizzy with relief when Sherlock sat him down again, unable to stop his eyes from watering. It took him a moment to even realize Sherlock was speaking to him.

"John. John, please say something. Are you alright? Did I hurt you? I didn't mean-"

"No, it's just- I just need- just, just a moment," John managed to say, in between his staccato breaths. He knew he was moving far too much, far too soon, but he couldn't fathom being in the hospital for another moment, not knowing that Mary and Elizabeth were down in the morgue. He wasn't sure if it was the thought of his girls that made his stomach roll, or if it was the pain, but he barely managed to get out the words, "Sherlock, bin, now," before he was heaving.

After vomiting everything he'd eaten in the past day, which thankfully, wasn't much, John slowly took inventory of the current situation. He did have a pair of sweatpants on, thanks mostly to Sherlock, but was still wearing the hospital gown. Sherlock was apparently able to get a bin into John's lap before his stomach contents appeared there, though how he managed it, John didn't know. He was resting his head against Sherlock's chest again, breathing heavily, but feeling like he was finished being sick for the moment. Sherlock knelt down in front of John, so he could see his face, and removed the bin from his hands, placing it on the floor within his reach.

"John, are you sure you still want to go home today?" Sherlock asked, quiet and tentative. "It's alright to change your mind. You don't have to get up right now. We could at least get you some more pain medication."

"Um... no, no I want to go home. Just get me out of here. _Please._ " That singular  _please_ from John was underlined and bolded in Sherlock's mind, and both men heard the subtle crack in his voice, but Sherlock didn't mention it.

"Okay. We'll get you home, John. Take a sip of water to rinse out your mouth," Sherlock said, offering John his cup of ice water and then holding the bin for him to spit into.

"Ta," John said, weakly.

"If you can manage to keep sitting upright, I'll get your hospital gown off, okay?"

"Mm," John mumbled in consent, too tired to think words to say to thank Sherlock for all he was doing to help.  _Sherlock Holmes, helping me dress myself and holding a sick bin for me. What is the world coming to?_

Sherlock deftly unsnapped John's gown, pointedly refusing to let himself study the wounds on John's torso, and helped him reach his broken arm and then his good arm through the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling it down over the bandages and abrasions that littered the doctor's frame. By the time he was dressed, Sherlock thought John looked positively grey in the face, and was worried he might be sick again.

"John, do you need the bin?"

"No, no. Just help me into the wheelchair," John said, his voice quiet and thin.

"Are you sure you don't want to rest a few more minutes? It's going to hurt."

"I know. Better to get it over with."

"If you say so, John. I'll put it on the left side, considering your injuries are mostly on the right," He paused for a moment, arranging the wheelchair and locking the wheels before turning back to John. "Hook your good arm around my elbow, I think my shoulders were a bit too high for you last time. There, good. I'm just going to hold you here, under your arm, does that hurt?" A brief shake of John's head, and Sherlock was satisfied, wanting to get this over with as much as John was. "On three, again. One. Two. Three," Sherlock said, hauling John into a standing position as most of the blood drained from the doctor's face, pivoting him to the wheelchair, and sitting him down as delicately as possible. A soft, pained moan escaped John's lips before he sealed his mouth shut, drawing in measured breaths through his nose and gripping the arm rests of the wheelchair for dear life.

Before he was entirely sure what was happening, Sherlock was kneeling in front of him again, his hand cupping John's cheek lightly, wiping away the few drops of salt water that had escaped from his screwed-shut eyelids. "It's okay, John. Mycroft has a van waiting for us downstairs, so you don't have to stand again until we're back at Baker Street. I'm going to take you home now." Standing just as abruptly as he had knelt, Sherlock swiftly made his way behind John's chair and pushed him towards the exit of the hospital, still unsure if leaving this soon was a wise decision, but knowing that he would feel the same way in John's position. In fact, John was considerably more amicable than Sherlock would have been, if he was going to be honest.

John was only dimly aware that Sherlock was strapping his chair into the lift of a van, and wasn't sure how they ended up holding hands on the way home. He squeezed the pale fingers that were interlaced with his own, resting his head on a pillow Sherlock had placed behind it on the way out of the hospital.

"Sherlock?" He asked, when they were nearly home.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for this. For all of this."

"Of course, John. It's no problem at all."

The hint of a smile crossed John's expression before he fell into a doze, only to be awakened when Sherlock had got him upstairs and parked the wheelchair next to his bed. For the third time that day, Sherlock helped John painfully stand, and relocated him to the bed. He tucked the covers around John's barely conscious form, and was about to head to the kitchen to make some tea and do research on John's injuries, when John stirred and reached for Sherlock's hand.

"John, do you need something?"

"No," John said, sleep clouding his thoughts and voice. "Jus' your hand."

"Of course, John. I didn't bring the chair in here yet. Do you mind if I sit on the bed with you?"

" 'S all fine, Sh'lock." John murmured, falling asleep with Sherlock's hand in his own, while Sherlock settled himself next to John, propped against the headboard.  _It's fine with me too, John_.


	9. After Everything We've Been Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson makes tea, Sherlock finds out how poorly John coped after the fall, and Mycroft plans funerals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic, graphic, graphic descriptions of Mary's and Elizabeth's deaths here. Mentions of past suicide attempts this chapter as well (not Sherlock's fake one).

The next day, John woke in a considerable, but manageable amount of pain.  _I'm a soldier, for God's sake, and I have business to attend to._  The business, of course, being the planning of the funerals for his wife and daughter. John, the soldier, swallowed down the pain, before he opened his eyes and realized he was being watched.  _What is Sherlock doing in my... Oh. Right. Sherlock's bed._

"It's my bed, John," Sherlock cut off John's train of thought, laying next to him on his side, on top of the covers, facing his blogger.

"I've figured that out by now, thanks."

"How are you feeling? Mrs. Hudson is about to bring up some tea. She started prattling about several minutes ago when she realized you were home. 'Oh, John' this and 'Poor John' that. I suppose it's warranted, considering the situation, but really, so much energy wasted talking to the air about how awful you must feel now that Mary and Elizabeth-" Sherlock caught the deadly warning expression on John's face and abruptly shut his mouth. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why have I got to be so bloody stupid? I really need to try to be more observant while I'm speaking to people. It's as if my mouth opens and my brain shuts off._

"Sherlock, for someone so bloody brilliant, sometimes it's like your brain shuts off as soon as your mouth opens," John said, with a surprising lack of bite behind the words. "What now? You look as if someone's hit you in the face."

 _Well it's not every day that you say exactly what I'm thinking, John. In fact, the only person who has ever told me exactly what I'm thinking is Mycroft. And your presence is so much more enjoyable than his._ "Sorry, John... I, erm. Should I not mention..? I mean, will it bother you? You know I'm not the best at censorship. I can certainly make an effort though, for your emotional well-being. If that would suit you."

"I..." John shook his head slightly, wincing at his stiff, newly-mended neck. "I don't know, Sherlock. It's so soon. I don't think it's real yet. It took me a few weeks, for it to really sink in, last time."

"Last time. You mean the fall. My suicide." Sherlock swallowed, still not comfortable with discussing the incident with John.  _Or what happened while I was away. The situation Mycroft extracted me from, if you could even consider that a successful "extraction."_

"Erm, yeah. It's not my first time around the block, so to speak, I suppose. At least now I know how I... handle things. Know what to expect. Probably why Mrs. Hudson is in a tizzy. Don't be so harsh with her, Sherlock. She doesn't deserve it."  _Not after she came up here and took my gun out of my hands, before Mary found me and put me back together again. Not after I avoided her for months, out of shame, and she still welcomed me back as family. After everything we've been through._

They both heard Mrs. Hudson bustling up the stairs, carrying her nicest tea tray with her, and Sherlock immediately got up from the bed, jostling John more than he meant to. John hissed in pain, but Sherlock was already at the door, welcoming Mrs. Hudson in, telling her they would be right out.  _He's actually being a gracious host for once. Surprise after surprise, lately._ _  
_

Sherlock managed to help John into the wheelchair with minimal pain, _I suppose having such an observant flatmate comes in handy during times like these_ , folded a blanket in half and tucked it over his lap, and was pushing him out to the living room and helping him into his chair in record time.

"Oh, John. My dear, dear John, will it hurt you too much if I hug you?"

"Just don't squeeze too hard Mrs. Hudson, but it's fine, yeah."

Mrs. Hudson bent down in front of John and gathered him into a gentle, motherly hug, pressing his face into her shoulder and running her hand lightly across his shoulders. She held on to him for a few moments, longer than most people would, but then again, she was Mrs. Hudson. _She used to bake cookies for the drug cartel. You can't get much more motherly than that._

"There, now, let's have some tea!" She said, with a small clap of her hands and a bit more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. Sherlock sunk into the sofa heavily, allowing Mrs. Hudson to serve them, clearly done filling the role of gracious host. She sat too close to John, as if trying to decide whether it was safe to be more than 3 feet away from him, and kept alternating between glaring daggers and smiling sadly at Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson, is something the matter? You've been acting strangely ever since you came upstairs. I know John's been through a loss, but there's not reason to act as if he's made of china. Or look at me as if I'm the reason he's beaten to a pulp."

Mrs. Hudson shot a glare at Sherlock neither of the men were expecting, ignored Sherlock's statement, and turned to address John as if Sherlock wasn't in the room at all, "John, dear, I know it was bad last time, before Mary came, because you were so alone up here. I know it's bad this time, because it's both of your girls instead of one Sherlock. You know, if you feel like that again, like last time, you just call for me, and I'll be up in a jiffy. And Sherlock's here, I know he would stay with you, if you needed someone, and-"

"Mrs. Hudson, what on Earth are you talking about? Of course I'm staying here, it's my flat, and John can barely move, let alone care for himself, why would I leave him alone?"

John closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of his chair, knowing exactly what Mrs. Hudson was talking about.  _Shit. Sherlock doesn't need to know about this_. He took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth, preparing for the inevitable conversation that was about to happen.

Mrs. Hudson, still only addressing John, said, "John... you never told him. Oh, I'm so sorry, I never should have opened my mouth, but really, I'm surprised he hasn't figured it out by now, what with all the other things he knows about us without being told-"

"Mrs. Hudson, stop talking." Sherlock's voice was quiet, but serious. John opened his eyes and made eye contact with the detective, whose eyes were boring into him with a ferocity that is generally reserved for the most difficult crime scenes, usually only locked-door murders. Before John could say a word in defense of himself, Sherlock was on his feet. "No." The single syllable fell from his lips at a volume hardly above a whisper, but his face quivered with energy as if he were shouting.  _Christ, I guess he knows now,_ was the only thought in John's mind.

Mrs. Hudson looked between the boys, bit her lip, and addressed John again, "John, dear, I think you and Sherlock need to have a talk. I'll just be downstairs. Don't worry about the tea, I'll come back for it later," she glanced at Sherlock, "or maybe tomorrow." The flat was silent until Sherlock heard her close her door behind her.

"Sherlock, I really don't want to discuss this. I'm tired, I hurt, and I need to lay back down. And then I need to make the funeral arrangements. And then figure out where to go from there, and I've got so much on my plate right now, I don't see any need to drudge up old memories."

Sherlock was studying him, opened his mouth as if to speak, and shut it again. Twice.

"Whatever you want John. Let's get you back to bed." Sherlock told him, emotionless, not meeting his eye.

_John may not have been here when I came home. Why didn't Mycroft tell me? Why didn't John tell me? He could have died. He could have killed himself, because of me, because of my foolish heroics. I should have thought of another way. Mycroft should have thought of another way. Surely there could have been another way. Except there wasn't. I know there wasn't. So why am I feeling guilty? Feelings. Always the feelings._

For the second time that day, John seems to know exactly what Sherlock is thinking. "Sherlock, there wasn't any other way. They would have killed me, and our friends. I know that now. It was just... then, I didn't. I didn't know. It's in the past. Help me up."

So Sherlock helped John up, and back into bed. When John was settled, Sherlock sat himself in the bed, resting against the headboard next to John, much like he had last night.

"You know, Sherlock, you don't have to sit in here with me all day. I know your bored."

"It's fine, John. I'd rather be with you. If you need me then I don't have to come all the way in from the living room. I also brought your laptop and phone. So we can make the arrangements. Or rather, approve or disapprove of the arrangements Mycroft has set tentatively in place."

 _Right. Mycroft. Of course he would_.

Sure enough, John opened his email to find one from Mycroft, or more likely, Anthea, detailing the funeral and burial arrangements. John read the email through once, twice, and a third time. His hand tremor began to act up on the second read, and Sherlock gently took his laptop from him after he could see that John's facade of strength was beginning to crumble. John stared at his empty hands, and Sherlock stared at John, not knowing what to do. After a few moments, John spoke up.

"So, the... the funeral's on Saturday then."

"Yes. Saturday."

"It's closed casket. There's no viewing."

"No, John. There couldn't be an open casket for either of them."

"Sherlock, I... I don't remember Mary looking that bad, after. I couldn't see... I couldn't see Elizabeth, but Mary, it was just her neck..." John's voice tapered off to a confused, sad whisper. He kept staring at his hands, unmoving.

"Do you need me to tell you?" Sherlock asked, knowing John would not  _want_ to know, but that he may  _need_ to know.

"I... don't know," John mumbled, in the same quiet whisper.

"Then I will. If it's too much, stop me," Sherlock waited for John to answer him. He didn't. "John, will you stop me if it's too much for you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll stop you."

"Mary's neck was broken on impact, severing her spinal cord almost completely. Her lung was punctured by her ribs, which were all broken on the left side, but she was dead before she could feel much pain. Her skull was partially crushed as well, but I assume you didn't see that, since you haven't mentioned it," Sherlock took a breath to steady himself, and to assess whether John could handle him continuing. John appeared to be unchanged, so Sherlock plowed on. "After you and Elizabeth were pulled from the wreckage, the car caught fire. Most of Mary's body was trapped beneath the vehicle that hit you, and they couldn't get her out before she was badly burned. But she didn't burn to death John, she was already gone. It was just her transport," Sherlock offered, trying to console John, who looked horrified at the mention of fire.  _Always a bit skittish around fire since that night I pulled him out of the bonfire. I suppose I don't blame him_.

"But you said, Elizabeth. She... she was pulled out of the car with me? They got... they got her out?" John asked, trying desperately not to imagine his baby girl engulfed in flames fed by petrol.

"Yes, the first responders managed to extract both you and Elizabeth before the fire began."

"Then why, the closed casket for Elizabeth?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to shake off the memory of the mutilated corpse Molly had begrudgingly shown him only after Mycroft insisted she must.  _Why did I have to see her? Foolish. Sentiment makes all of us so, so foolish._

"Sherlock. Please. Tell me why," John said, his voice even and sure, but cautious.

"The- Part of the-" Sherlock shook his head, trying to get rid of the images he saw from the case file Mycroft gave him to look over while John had slept and the memory of the small child's body laying on Molly's table. He took a breath to compose himself, and began again.  _Just another body. Just another case._

"A fairly large metal part of the vehicle broke off of the other driver's car, and entered through Elizabeth's window, shattering it and the majority of the left side of her head. It pierced her neck, severed her aorta, and exited through the lower right side of her chest, breaking her ribs and destroying her lungs and heart. Most of her torso was torn apart by the force of the impact." Sherlock finished, out of breath from speaking quickly to get the image out of his mind. Of course, however, it was an image he would never be able to forget.  _Not something I can just file away in the back of my Mind Palace, apparently_.

John's eyes were wide, but he didn't respond to Sherlock. He continued to stare at his hands, his breath slow and shallow, for several minutes. Sherlock was at a loss with unresponsive John. Suddenly, now that they were in his bed, away from the chaos and the emotions of the hospital, Sherlock wasn't sure how much contact would be comforting and how much would be disconcerting. "I'm sorry, John, should I not have..." Sherlock let his voice fade off, because John didn't seem to hear him anyway. Slowly, he reached out his hand and placed it on John's shoulder. Almost immediately, John's hand was on his, gripping him as if he were holding on for his life. After several more minutes, John found his voice again.

"Thank you. For going to see them. I assume Mycroft made that happen too?"

"Yeah, he did. Molly was less than enthusiastic."

"I'm glad... I'm glad someone saw them. Someone who loved them. I don't think... I don't think I could."

"I wouldn't recommend it. It was rather unpleasant." At that, John chuckled sardonically.

"I still remember looking at your dead body on the pavement. Still have nightmares about it. And you weren't even dead."

"John, I'm sorry. Still."

"I know." John squeezed Sherlock's hand. They sat together, silent, Sherlock in his Mind Palace and John feeling numb and blank.

"Sherlock?" John asked, trying to get the detective's attention. "Sherlock, come out of there for a moment."

Sherlock roused himself, and looked at John, unsure of when his blogger had started talking to him.

"Just, um, what Mrs. Hudson was saying earlier. I don't want to talk about it. But, if you have Mycroft bring any more of my stuff from home, probably best to leave my gun there. It's been manageable, with you here. But I don't know, once it hits me, I don't know how I'll cope. So better to just leave it there, eh?"

"Of course, John."

"Ta. I think I'm due for some morphine and some sleep. Could you get it for me?"

Sherlock handed John a glass of water from the bedside table and a morphine tablet, and watched as he drifted off into a hopefully dreamless sleep for the afternoon.

Carding his fingers gently thought John's hair as he slept, Sherlock opened his phone and texted Mycroft with his free hand,

**The arrangements will be fine, Mycroft. Thank you. -SH**

**My brother, Sherlock Holmes, thanking me? What's gotten into you? -MH**

**Save it, Mycroft. I don't need your vitriol. Not when you nearly let John kill himself while I was away. -SH**

**Ah, well. He didn't, and that's what matters, isn't it? -MH**

**About as much as you watching me get beaten nearly to death in Serbia matters. -SH**

**Still on about that? I saved your life. -MH**

**You watched them torture me. -SH**

**Do you still think I enjoyed it, brother mine? -MH**

**I don't know what to think about you anymore, Mycroft. -SH**

Sherlock threw his phone at the wall, watching the battery pop out and skitter across the floor of his bedroom, before turning his attention back to John's sleeping form, thinking he should probably do something about getting food for John at some point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, people who comment. I am literally bedbound at the moment, because whatever had me in the hospital last week is apparently a bit not good. It's all cardiac problems, and if I'm honest, I'm getting to the point where I'm slightly frightened. Might be getting a cardiac cath done or a pacemaker or a myriad of other things. I'm only 23.
> 
> So, the kudos and the comments are literally one of the only rays of sunshine into my currently dreary existence. Let me know what you think. Let me know what I can do to improve. It's not like I have much else to do at the moment, but lay around worried that my heart's about to give out.
> 
> I don't want to be morbid, but I'm being serious when I say, if I stop updating, it may be because I'm dead. Hopefully, it doesn't come to that, but at this point, it's a real possibility. I want you to know that the encouragement and thoughts you've shared so far have meant a lot to me, and I appreciate every one of them.
> 
> Thanks, AO3 community. Hopefully this isn't my final chapter.


	10. This Will Not Destroy You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps John prepare for the funeral. Awkwardness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to some meta I read on Tumblr, it looks like Elizabeth should have been born around January 20th-ish. That's what I'm gonna go with, unless someone wants to refute me with actual research.

The day began as all the others have since John returned to Baker Street with Sherlock, meaning that John woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat, tried to sit up too fast, and was hit with a wall of pain so heavy all he could do was sink back down into his pillow. Sherlock was there, of course, as he had been ever since the accident, to lay a cool hand on John's forehead and brush back the hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

They'd fallen into a rhythm: John would wake, horrified and disoriented, and Sherlock would either stroke his hairline or his hand, whichever was closest. Sherlock didn't bother speaking after the first time, knowing that contact with another living person was what John needed, not the lie that everything was "okay." After a few minutes, John would collect himself and mumble something along the lines of "Ta, am I due for a morphine tab yet?" or "Wake me after the bloody sun comes up."

Sherlock had moved a recliner into the bedroom, so that he could sit and watch his blogger without cramping his personal space or bothering him too much every time he leapt from the bed mid-deduction on a cold case. Occasionally, he would lay down and nap, next to John but on top of the covers, not wanting to make things more awkward than he already had.  _Luckily, I don't need sleep nearly as much as John does. That could become logistically difficult. Assuming John would be opposed to regularly sharing a bed with me. Assuming I would be amicable to sharing a bed with anyone! ...if I were to share a bed with anyone, it most certainly would be John Watson, though. Logically, I've shared my flat with him and now my bedroom; certainly a bed is not that great of a step. Especially considering he is currently commandeering my bed for his convalescence. He hasn't seemed to mind the other times, although there is usually a hint of confusion on his face when he wakes. That's expected though, he's used to waking up next to small, soft Mary, not 6 feet of consulting detective. Of course Mycroft is right when he says I feel something more for John, but now is certainly not the time for that to come to light, not when he is morning the loss of his wife and his child, both of whom he loved dearly. John doesn't even acknowledge that he's bisexual; he certainly wouldn't react positively to an outpouring of feeling from a man who's been sleeping in his bed while he recuperates. I'm not going to take advantage of him in his current state of grief, who does Mycroft think I am, Irene Adler for God's sake? I may know how to manipulate people, and I may be excellent at doing just that, but that doesn't mean I'm going to approach John when he is at his most vulnerable-_

"Sherlock! Hello? Are you sleeping with your eyes open or have you finally got yourself stuck in your Mind Palace?"

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, I've been trying to talk to you for a couple minutes. You alright?" John asked, doing his best to prop himself into a sitting position.

"Yes, just fine. Working on a case. Lestrade sent a couple more files over last night."  _Maybe I should actually read one of them..._

"It's almost seven, could you start the tea?"

"Why would I start the tea this early? You never want to get up before nine."

John closed his eyes.  _So, it's going to be like this today. Great._ "Sherlock. What's today?"

"The 23rd of August. It's 6:57 AM on the 23rd of August."

"What day of the week is it?"

"Saturday, John, really, you could just look at your mobile-"

"Sherlock, what important event is scheduled at 10am on Saturday, August the 23rd?"

"Oh.  _Oh._ John, I didn't forget, I just-"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Just start the tea. Then come back here and help me get to the shower."

"Right." Sherlock abruptly stood up and fled the room, leaving John to sigh dejectedly to an empty room. Minutes later, Sherlock had put the teakettle on, and was returning to help John maneuver himself into the shower. His first shower after coming home from the hospital was a bit of a debacle and ended with him sitting in the bottom of the tub in just his pants, Sherlock toppling over him in just his dressing gown, and water spraying everywhere but on John. They'd come up with a better system since then, which involved a shower bench Mycroft had installed within an hour, a waterproof cover for John's cast, and just a brief amount of assistance from Sherlock so that John could lift his legs over the rim of the tub without breaking any more bones. Sherlock was on his way back out to the kitchen to tend to the whistling kettle, when John spoke up.

"Sherlock, erm, could you do something for me?"

"Obviously John, I'm doing almost everything for you anyway," Sherlock caught the embarrassed look on John's face, and tried to backtrack, "I mean, not that it's an inconvenience, although obviously it's an inconvenience for the both of us, but not that I mind the inconvenience, except I mind that you're in so much pain, which is the reason for the inconvenience, and I was just trying to say that I'm capable of doing something for you, John, so, yes, I can do something-"

"Sherlock, just stop talking."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, unsure if his request to stop talking was what John was meaning for him to do.

"No, Sherlock, that's not what I wanted to ask you. I was just going to say, I... erm, haven't been able to properly wash my hair because of my arm being immobilized, but I'll be seeing people today and I should make the effort, so could you help me out with that?" 

"Yes, though our tea will be cold."

"Well, you go have a cuppa, and by the time you come back you can help me with my hair. And I could probably use an extra hand shaving."

"Alright, John, just yell if you need me, okay?"

"I always do, Sherlock. Go eat something. Lord knows my stomach won't allow it this morning, so one of us should."

John worked himself out of his pants, leaving them on the floor outside the shower, and managed to get himself mostly clean, peeling off bandages that needed changing and trying not to get the incisions on his neck or head too wet. He was missing a two or three square inches of hair, where they'd had to shave him for the surgery on the subdural hematoma, but the rest of his scalp was littered with cuts and scratches from shattered glass. Sherlock walked in just as he was peeling the last bandage off of his ribs, trying to scrub off the residue from the tape.

"John, your pants are on the floor."

"Well, yeah, Sherlock. I don't tend to shower with pants on. And it's not as if you don't go walking about in a sheet with nothing under it half the time."

"You usually put them back on before I help you up."

"I don't usually have you wash my hair, either. Whatever. Just hand them to me, you know they're just going to get sopping wet and you'll feel just as awkward anyway. Not that I know why you're so embarrassed, we've been sleeping in the same bed for almost a week." John cocked his head slightly, thinking about the words he'd just said, not actually realizing that was the case until it came out of his mouth. He decided to ignore the strange feeling in his chest that the connotation of  _sleeping with Sherlock_ gave him.

"Well, John, for one, you always sleep in your pants."

John snorted, "And I know for a fact that until you brought me home and set me up in your bed, you always slept completely naked."

There was an awkward silence between the two men, as John stared at Sherlock through the clear shower curtain and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, clearly you observe some things."  _That may have been not the best choice of words_.

"Sherlock, hand me the goddamn pants, get over here, and wash my bloody hair." John said, with far less vigor than the swears implied.

Sherlock handed John his pants, waiting a few moments for him to maneuver his body into them, and tentatively opened the shower curtain enough to have access to John's head. "Just be careful of the incisions, Sherlock. I can get them damp, but I don't want them to be soaked."

"Not a problem, John."

Sherlock squeezed a dollop of John's generic shampoo into his hand, and began massaging the doctor's bruised and beaten scalp. John accidentally hissed in pain a few times, and Sherlock realized that every time he worked over another cut or bruise, a litany of "Sorry, John, don't want to hurt you, tell me if I need to stop," was falling from his mouth of its own accord.  _I wish I could think of some joke about his pants to make this seem a little less torturous._

It was all over, soon enough, and Sherlock was holding the mirror for him to shave and helping him reach around to the far side of his face, preventing him from nicking himself on his ear or jaw line. The closer the clock ticked to the time Mycroft's car would pick them up, the fewer comments John made. He had been completely silent for 10 minutes by the time he and Sherlock were in their suits, Sherlock preparing to help John into the chair lift to get downstairs.

"John, I know this is going to be difficult for you, and I can't possibly imagine how difficult, but if you need anything from me, just say the words and it will be done. I'm going to stay with you during the service, unless you tell me otherwise." Sherlock looked back at John, who was staring at the floor with glassy eyes. He walked over to John, crouched in front of him, and took his hand. "John Watson, you are the strongest man I have ever met. This will not destroy you."

The eyes that stared back at Sherlock from John's face were empty, but John squeezed Sherlock's hand, if only to indicate he was listening.  _He might not believe me now. But at least I know he heard me_.

The car was waiting for them when they arrived downstairs. Sherlock had a feeling that John wouldn't be speaking again until he delivered the eulogies for his wife and daughter. And possibly, not for a bit after. So, the rode in silence and Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's shoulder, not breaking contact with him until the arrived and he was forced to get out of the car to help John to his feet and into his wheelchair. 

_This will not destroy you, John. I will make sure of it. I vowed to protect you. I may have failed Mary and Elizabeth, but I won't fail you, John. Not again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the well-wishes for my health. I have some more cardiac testing scheduled next week, and it is looking more and more likely that I'll need a pacemaker or heart surgery. I haven't flatlined yet or needed to be shocked, but the reality of my mortality is weighing heavily on me. Hopefully, nothing too serious happens before I get some sort of treatment set up and an actual diagnosis for my irregular rhythms. 
> 
> If something does happen, please know that your thoughts and prayers mean the world to me, even if I only know you as a screen-name on AO3.


	11. How Vital Love Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funerals are sad. As is this chapter.  
> Much crying. Much grief.

John Watson never had much of a proclivity towards religion, except when he was faced with mortality, and really only attended a smattering of church services in his lifetime. He did, however, own a Bible, has on occasion begged God for his life, and was married to an assassin by the Church of England. So, when the minister led in the caskets containing the bodies of the girls he loved most in the world, he took some comfort in the idea that he was giving them a proper funeral, surrounded by the people who loved them and a minister who assured them that both Mary's and Elizabeth's souls resided in Heaven. 

He sat in the front row, with Sherlock beside him. Mary had no family to speak of, and John's parent's had died ages ago. Harry was, unsurprisingly, absent.  _She'll show up drunk, later. Sherlock will deal with it_. He wasn't sure who else was there, or even who Mycroft had thought to invite. Coworkers, friends, the people from the wedding, perhaps. It didn't matter, not now. All that mattered was the child-sized casket, not 20 feet from where he was sitting.  _Barely larger than a couple of shoe-boxes._

His back was perfectly straight, his eyes looking directly ahead, his jaw set against the thoughts going through his mind, determined not to break down in front of whoever it was that was here.  _Later. Plenty of time for that, later_.  _Breathe, Watson._ He was dimly aware of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, the only thing keeping him grounded and in the moment, but just barely. He wrenched himself from his thoughts long enough to catch Psalm 23 halfway through, 

"...through the valley of 

the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;

for you are with me;

your rod and staff, they comfort me.

You spread a table before me

in the presence of those who trouble me;

you have anointed my head with oil

and my cup shall be full.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I will dwell In the house of the Lord for ever."

After a few more words from the minister, none of which John could remember, Sherlock was nudging him, whispering, "John. The eulogy." They had discussed it the night before; John wanted to walk to the podium of his own power. He painstakingly got to his feet, with the help of a cane, and made his way up. He could feel the color drain from his bruised face as pain sliced through his tender ribs and battered muscles.  _Keep it together, Watson. Nothing compared to being shot._

Finally reaching his destination, he turned to face the small gathering of mourners, and began.

"Mary and Eliz-" he choked on his daughters name, hastily covered it up with a cough, blinked a few times, and took a deep breath. Sherlock looked as if he were about to leap from his seat, though the look John shot him convinced him not to do so.

_Half of this is a lie. She isn't the woman I fell in love with; Mary Morstan doesn't exist. I don't even know the name of that woman laying in a casket next to my daughter._

He began again, his voice solid though slightly rough.

"Mary and Elizabeth Watson were my family. My radiant wife and my beautiful little girl. Mary and I fell in love quickly, and foolishly, and I could never seem to let her go despite... despite anything that happened between us. She helped me to heal from a great loss, and showed me life again. She was the cleverest, most intelligent woman I have ever met in my life. Some people described her as 'the cleverest Watson,'" he shot a look at Sherlock, who turned up the corners of his mouth ever-so-slightly in recognition.

"Mary is the reason that I got to spend seven wonderful, sleepless, joyful months with my little Elizabeth. I never knew it was possible to love another living being this much until Elizabeth was born. She had my heart before she took her first breath."  _And broke it with her last._

 

"Maybe those months were so sleepless, so that we could spend more time together before she had to go. I'm thankful, now, for every waking moment I spent with her, even the moments spent with her screaming into my ear or changing nappies. She loved Mary and I fiercely, and innocently, and without question. Maybe it's a blessing, a small one, that she was taken before she learned about the reality of life, before she ever felt hurt, or experienced betrayal."  _Damn it, Greg, stop crying, I'm trying to control myself up here._

"I don't-" His voice broke again, but he was a soldier, God damn it, and he was going to finish. He swallowed. "I don't understand why this happened. But I will cherish every moment I spent with my baby girl for the rest of my life, and I hope that-" he blinked again, and subtly wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, trying to cover with a cough again.  _Getting a bit obvious, that._ "I hope that her memory will serve as a reminder of how fleeting innocence is and how vital love is to us all." He was breathing heavily now, stabbing pain shooting across his chest from his broken ribs and his head pounding.  _Almost done. It's almost done._

"Thank you for coming. All of you. It means more than you know."

He started to make his way back to his seat, but the ground began to tilt in front of him and darkness clouded the sides of his vision. He felt Sherlock's arm around his waist, holding him upright until they reached their seats again, waiting for the rest of the service to finish. After sitting down, assuming his previous straight posture, he blinked and felt a couple stray tears escape from his eyelids. Sherlock pressed a handkerchief into his hand, whispering "It was lovely, John. You did well." John swallowed and nodded silently in return, refusing to look at Sherlock, knowing he would fall apart if he so much as met the man's eyes.  _Sherlock will understand._

Mary and Elizabeth were buried near Sherlock's first grave site, just a few plots over. By the time they were gathered at the graveside, most of the attendants, all acquaintances, really, John didn't know half of their names, had left. There was no gathering scheduled for after the service; John wouldn't have the strength and neither Mycroft nor Sherlock cared much for gatherings of people who pretended to care more than they do. With the minister halfway through the committal prayer, John became aware of a deep, agonizing sound that had started in his chest and somehow made it out of his mouth without his consent. He bit his lip, squinted his eyes shut, and concentrated on breathing through his nose. He sunk slightly into his wheelchair, not having the strength to maintain his military-precise posture.  _God, not now. Please, just let me control myself until we can get home._

Like an answer to his prayer, Sherlock crouched next to John from his standing position, placed a hand delicately on the back of John's neck, and murmured to him under his breath in such a caring manner than John was certain at first that it was Greg, or maybe Molly. "Breathe in through your nose, John. Slowly. I'll count for you. One, two, three..." John focused on Sherlock's almost-silent counting, measuring his breaths and slowing his heart rate. He recovered after a few minutes, and Sherlock stood back up, keeping his hand resting on John's shoulder. 

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of pain and flowers and condolences. John made eye contact with nodded pleasantly at his and Mary's friends, allowed a few to hug him or share a story, and was eternally grateful when Sherlock came up with an excuse for both of them to return home. He hadn't said a word in hours, and Sherlock was beginning to worry.

"John."

_Silence._

"John. I understand you're traumatized, but at least look at me if you can't bring yourself to speak."

John raised his eyes to Sherlock's, from the horizontal position he had been occupying on the sofa since they had returned to Baker Street. Sherlock was startled by the grief he saw there, unaccustomed to seeing any weakness in his soldier, and most likely unprepared for it. John's face, beneath the swelling and sickly green bruising, now looked as if he had aged 10 years overnight. There were bags under his bruised eyes, lines and creases that hadn't been there just days ago, and a hollowness in his eyes that was frightening. Sherlock could tell he was holding back tears, from the way the corners of his eyes glistened slightly and the unusual redness there. Sherlock sat on the floor in front of John's face to speak to him properly.

"John, if I understand correctly, you're trying to be strong. Muscle your way through this, so to speak. I understand, at the funeral, you didn't want people to see you like this. I wouldn't, either. But we're home now; it's over, and all the people are gone. You are not going through this alone, not this time. Waiting for me to leave before you break down isn't an option, because I'm not leaving you. Not again. Not ever. I am staying with you, right here, while you do whatever it is your body has to do to grieve, no matter how ugly or distasteful it may be."

John's breathing was shallow, and he was still trying to hold his tears back, rather unsuccessfully. Suddenly, he reached out and roughly grabbed a chunk of Sherlock's curls, and drew Sherlock's face down so that it was just inches from his own.

"Promise me. Right now. Promise me you aren't leaving. Because I'll have nothing left, Sherlock, if you do. You can't lie to me, you can't go. You have to promise." John's voice was hoarse and riddled with barely-suppressed sobs.

"John. I promise you, with every sincere fiber in my being, that I will not leave you again. Not of my own volition."

John broke the way a landslide begins. A few rocks and pebbles tumble down the cliff, followed by a couple boulders, and suddenly whole villages are swept away beneath its power. The dark, sorrowful moan that he had choked off at the burial began again, and Sherlock was at a loss. He could only think of how Mummy had comforted him when Redbeard had died. So, he gently sat on the sofa and gathered John's shaking body into his arms, holding him tight against his chest, trying to provide him with a foundation to hold fast to, hoping the landslide that was John's grief wouldn't carry John away with it. Pressing his face into John's sweet-smelling hair, he cried with his friend until neither man had any tears left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm sorry. This is horrible.


	12. It Was Rather Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John both kind of need therapy. And then there are cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock talks about being tortured near the end of this chapter. FYI if that's triggering for you.
> 
> Also, I do actually have PTSD, so the PTSD related stuff in here should be fairly accurate.

At least this time when Sherlock drugged John's tea, it was with a prescription, and with John's consent, rather than possibly hallucinogen-laced sugar. The idea was for John to get some sleep that night, without nightmares, and both men knew that a restful night after attending the funeral for your wife and daughter was not going to happen without some sort of medication.

The problem was that John was definitely having nightmares, and Sherlock couldn't get him to wake up.

"John. JOHN."  _Christ, could he stop moaning for half a second and listen to me?_

"JOHN WATSON, WAKE UP!" Sherlock jostled John's shoulder, not wanting to cause his friend pain, but knowing he'd rather be awake and in pain than experiencing whatever nightmarish hell that was causing him to thrash about and moan as if he were being tortured.  _God, he sounds like I did in Serbia. Please wake up, John. I can't take this._

"CAPTAIN JOHN HAMISH WATSON, WAKE YOUR ARSE UP! IT'S NOT REAL!"  _How can he possibly cope with his transport failing him this miserably? Thank God I retained some semblance of control over my mind after Serbia._  Sherlock shoved John again, harder this time, but taking care to avoid his more serious injuries. John was practically howling at this point, and Sherlock found himself hoping that Mrs. Hudson had taken an extra strong herbal soother this evening and wouldn't wake. 

Sherlock's next idea was to slap his flatmate in the face, but considering his facial injuries, he decided against it. Instead, he reached down and pinched the bottoms of both of John's feet as hard as he could. "JOHN, It's Sherlock, wake UP, you are having a nightmare."

This earned Sherlock a swift kick in the face as John leapt to his feet faster than Sherlock had seen him move in the past week. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely awake, and his body wasn't as nearly as prepared for the sudden movement as his mind thought he would be. He staggered, backed into Sherlock's desk, knocked off an assortment of office supplies, and fell hard onto his injured arm and ribs. John's indecipherable moaning had transformed into a string of phrases that indicated to Sherlock that the nightmare John was trapped in was some twisted combination between the car wreck and Afghanistan.

"Nooo, 'lisbeth's in the back, get her out. Get her out!"

"John. John, wake up, it's Sherlock, you're at Baker Street."

"GET HER OUT, don't let them take her, don't let them shoot her, NO GIVE ME MY GUN BACK-" Sherlock had taken the stapler that John was brandishing as a weapon. He grabbed John by the shoulders, holding his arms at his sides, trying to prevent John from injuring himself further.

"John. It's Sherlock. Look at me. Christ, John. Wake up. You had a sedative, and you're having a nightmare. Stop- AH- fighting me, JOHN! Nobody is taking Elizabeth. Nobody is shooting. You're at Baker Street. You're safe." As Sherlock spoke, he could see John starting to come back to himself.  _Okay, definitely not giving him that much sedative next time. Adverse reaction._

"Christ... Sherlock. God. My- my ribs, Christ. Christ it hurts." John managed, gasping for breath and looking around with wide eyes. He glanced at Sherlock's face and started at what he saw there. "Sherlock, your face, who did that?"  _Please don't tell me I did that. Not to Sherlock. This is not happening._

The look on Sherlock's face told John everything he needed to know. John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if he could forcibly squeeze out the sight of Sherlock's bleeding cheek and quickly swelling eye. "No. No no no. This is not happening..."

"John, stop it. I'm perfectly fine. It's not like I don't know how dangerous it can be to startle you awake. It's just transport. And my transport will be fine. I've had much worse. I've had much worse from you, in fact. Do you not remember the time you broke my nose after attacking me in three different restaurants?" John wasn't listening, hunched on the floor with his hands pressing into his eye sockets. Sherlock heard his mobile buzz on the desk and fumbled to grab it, knowing it was probably Mycroft texting to chastise him for his abysmal failure of waking John up.

**Don't move him. I've called his physician. His injuries need to be evaluated. -MH**

_Oh. Of course. He did just break his fall with already-broken bones. And the head injury. I'm really slipping; should have realized that sooner._   _Damn sentiment to hell. Again._

**I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. I wasn't going to move him. -SH**

**Then there's nothing to worry about. -MH  
**

"John, look at me. Stop it. I'm fine," Sherlock said as he forcibly removed John's hands from his face. "Mycroft is sending your physician here to check your injuries because you took a rather nasty fall on the right side. Don't move too much."

"Mycroft is... we're still under surveillance?"

"John, if you ever thought you weren't, you're a bigger fool than either of us realized."

John sighed, exasperated, and rested his head against the leg of the desk. "Sorry, about your face."

"It's fine, how many times do I need to tell you that?"

John didn't answer. Mycroft's on-call physician was at the flat within minutes to assess John, but he didn't appear to have exacerbated any of his injuries too seriously. _Certainly though, the higher-dose painkillers are welcomed._ He warned Sherlock to keep an eye on John for signs of his concussion worsening, helped John back to Sherlock's bed rather than the sofa, and was gone as quickly as he arrived.  _Discreet and efficient. Well done, Mycroft._

Sherlock sat in the recliner staring at John while he stared at the ceiling, still trying to shake the dream from his memory. "Maybe I should-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off, knowing exactly where this was going. _  
_

"John, when has Ellen ever helped you?"

"It's Ella. And it was her idea to start the blog. You wouldn't have nearly as many cases if it weren't for her idea."

"Making me quasi-famous did not cure your PTSD,  _obviously_ , and she hasn't even employed any of the known treatment methods on you yet.  _Blogging_  is hardly exposure therapy or EMDR."

"So, what do you suggest, since you think you know everything, the Great and Mighty Sherlock Holmes?"

"I would suggest getting a new therapist. Perhaps an actual psychologist would be of more help."

"So you do think I need therapy. I thought you didn't think it was worth the time."

"For me, John. It's not worth the time for  _me_."

"Oh, okay, because you're  _so bloody above it all_ , are you?" _Just take a hint, Sherlock. Not in the mood for your shit._

"No, John, because I've studied the various techniques they use and it's all very pedestrian-"

"So not only do I need to be in therapy, but I'm pedestrian."  _Really, Sherlock?_

"John, that is not at all what I'm saying-" 

"You're saying I need therapy because I'm stupid and you don't need therapy because you're smarter than all the therapists."

"You're not stupid compared to most people, John, just to me, and there are many other redeeming qualities you-"

"So you're smarter than me, and you're smarter than all the therapists in all of bloody England, but I need an 'actual psychologist' to walk me through exposure therapy because you startled me and I kicked you in the face?" John was sitting up in bed now, facing Sherlock, with a similar expression on his face to the one he wore before he broke Sherlock's nose the night he returned. Sherlock leaned further away from the bed, just barely, but John caught the motion anyway.

John blinked, his expression changing quickly from violent to surprised to cynically bemused in under five seconds. "You're afraid of me. The Great and Powerful Sherlock Holmes, who has transcended the practice of psychology entirely, is afraid of me. Why? Because I hit you when you came back and made an arse of yourself? Because I kicked you in the face because I thought you were an Afghani terrorist stealing my child? Sherlock, this is ridiculous. This entire conversation."

 _John can be ruthless in his grief. This is not pleasant._ "John, you're the one that started the conversation. Don't ask my opinion if you don't want it. I'll always tell you the truth and if you're unwilling to hear it, you should know better than raising the question to begin with. And no, I am not afraid of _you_. It's simply a rather unpleasant reaction I've had around people with tendencies to violence since Mycroft extracted me from a particularly gory situation in Serbia. It's all transport. I have no reason to fear you. My sympathetic nervous system, however, tends to view you as a threat when you begin acting like a crazed madman who would like to blacken my other eye before you retire for the evening, so yes, John, I suppose you can say that this entire conversation is ridiculous."

John was quiet, thinking about Sherlock's words. _He's been tortured. Shit. It's not good when even he calls it a particularly gory situation._  His expression softened, he scrubbed a hand over the uninjured portion his face, and he spoke in a less aggressive manner than before. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean most of that. Just taking it out on you. This day. All the stress. What happened? In Serbia?"

"You only want to know because you think I have PTSD. Our minds do not work the same way. I don't."

"And we both know how well self-diagnosing has gone for you in the past, Mr. High Functioning Sociopath. I want to know because you're my friend, and because I doubt you've told anyone about this besides Mycroft, and because to be honest, it's nice to have someone else's problems to focus on."

"I suppose you aren't going to let this go?"

"Probably not, nope."  _I should have asked months ago. I should have noticed._

"So you want me to tell you." Sherlock's face had taken the emotionless expression he often wears as a shield.

"Yeah, well, I'd like for you to be able to tell me. You don't have to, if it's too much-" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cut John off before he could finish his thought.

"Why would it be too much? I'm perfectly fine."

"Right, you've always flinched when I look angry."

Sherlock huffed, and looked away from John.  _Why does he think he needs this information? It's not pertinent. It's not important. It's not even remotely pleasant. Useless._ "Fine, John. Fine. I'll tell you, not that it's any of your business."  _And I won't sleep for the next few days, probably._

John settled himself back down in bed, on his back, knowing Sherlock would be more comfortable without John's eyes on him. "I'm listening."

"It was the final string in Moriarty's web. I was meant to infiltrate a Serbian crime ring's headquarters, so to speak. But word had gotten to them, from where, I don't know, that everything related to Moriarty was going down. Someone alerted them that I was coming. Gave them my description. They tracked me down, in the woods just outside the city I was traveling to. I was grossly outnumbered, in the air and on the ground. I ran, but eventually I had no option but to surrender to them. I thought I would be able to escape." Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the arm of the chair, not wanting to relive the next part of the story any more than John wanted to hear it.  _This is far more difficult than I anticipated_. John was patient, though. He understood, the telling of these types of memories can take time.

"Sherlock, if you don't want-"

"I need to."  _Now that you've dredged it all up, John._

"Okay. That's fine. Take your time."

"They held me in a cell. For almost ninety days, before Mycroft found me. At first, it was normal prison treatment. Three meals of flavorless slop, 12 hours of light, 12 hours of darkness, pointless questioning and interrogation by ammeters and imbeciles. After a couple days, they realized it was going to take more for me to talk." Sherlock paused and swallowed hard to center himself, and then plowed on. "They chained me, by the wrists from opposite walls so that I was hanging. My feet could touch the ground. I could crouch, but not sit. They cut the meals back to one a day, which I wasn't always able to keep down. They had a habit of beating me right after I ate. When I refused to answer their questions, they whipped me. When I gave them false answers and they discovered I had lead them astray, they whipped me. When they were bored, they hit me, or pissed on me. Or both. I was waterboarded, occasionally. I tried to distract them with deductions, but it was generally a useless cause. There was always a replacement guard for the one who left. They grew frustrated with me, and began depriving me of sleep. I can go days without sleep, but this was... I don't know how long it was. I lost track of time. I hallucinated. I hallucinated you, actually. I was disoriented to the point that I did not recognize Mycroft when he came. He infiltrated their ranks and became a guard. He was forced- I think, forced- to watch them beat me. When we were left alone, he smuggled me out. I came to see you less than a week later."

Sherlock had continued to stare through the wall while speaking, but John had slowly raised himself into a sitting position and was staring at Sherlock with his mouth slightly open. It seemed that Sherlock had entirely forgotten John was present, because he started when John spoke and turned his head so suddenly that John wondered if he had given himself whiplash.

"And I repaid you by tackling you to the ground and hitting you. You, with fresh wounds, fresh stitches, no doubt. Why didn't you stop me?"

"I wasn't really in the right state of mind to stop you at that point, John," Sherlock said, quietly, and still staring at the wall. 

"Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry. If I had known, I never would have-"

"I didn't tell you for your pity."

"I don't pity you, Sherlock! I'm amazed by you. By what you can withstand. Any other person would have broken in the face of that kind of torture. You're amazing. You're always amazing."

Sherlock turned to look at John's face, not believing his words until he saw the genuine expression. And expression that proved John's words true, but also lead him to a deduction. "You want to see the scars."

"I- erm-"

"It's perfectly alright, John. You're a doctor. You want to make sure they've healed properly."

"I do, yeah. I'm sure Mycroft's doctor did a fine job though."

Sherlock responded by removing his shirt, letting John see the front of him first, in an attempt to lessen the blow to his sentimental friend. He climbed out of the recliner and sat on the bed, just within John's reach. There were several marks on his pectorals that looked as if the skin had been burned away, and were now covered in the delicate fleshy pink of healed skin graft. A couple slashes to his abdomen that looked as if they had been infected at one point, the scars darker and raised. One that had clearly been stitched in the prison, the stitch marks just as clear as the scar from the wound itself. John found himself wanting to reach out and touch them, to make sure they were healed, to make sure Sherlock was really home and safe. John said nothing, knowing Sherlock would save the worst for last.

Slowly, Sherlock stretched out on the bed, laying on his stomach, his head turned to the side so that he could see John's expression as he viewed the disaster that was his back. He hadn't looked at it in the mirror in months. 

"Good God, Sherlock."

"Yes, it was rather serious."

 _Rather serious is the understatement of the century. I'm surprised he could even walk by the time he came to see me._ John couldn't keep himself from tentatively reaching out his hand and running it down the length of a particularly nasty, jagged, burgundy line raised on Sherlock's shoulders that extended to below the waistline of his trousers. Sherlock barely managed to disguise his shudder as a cough, but John saw it for what it was.

"Sorry I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's good."

"Good. It's good?"

"Eventually, I'll need to be able to allow people to touch my back. Lestrade at the least will start to notice if I flinch every time a misguided and grief-ridden witness attempts to hug me."

"So I should?"  _When did we get to the point where we are laying in bed together, touching each others' scars?_

"If you want."  _It's the first time in more than a year that someone touched me there without trying to hurt me, John. Of course it's good. It's you, John. Always, you._

John traced each of Sherlock's scars with his fingers, light as a feather, but somehow firm and comforting as well. Eventually, his pain and fatigue got the better of him, so he laid down once again, next to Sherlock.  _I just want to be close to him. I'm not gay. He's my best friend, and he's been tortured, and I've been widowed, and wanting to hold him is not gay. I don't think. Oh, fuck this. It doesn't matter. It's Sherlock. Since when can society label anything about him, anyway?_

"Sherlock," John's voice was hardly a whisper, with a hint of trepidation as he spoke. "Sherlock, come under the covers. Come here."

Sherlock looked at him strangely, raised an eyebrow, but did what he was told. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and guided the man's head to the subtle dip of tissue next to his shoulder and underneath his clavicle. Sherlock reached an unsure arm around John's waist, and worked his other beneath John's pillow. He was surrounded by John,  _the sound of John's heartbeat, the feeling of his breaths moving my curls, the smell of sweat and tea, his muscles holding my shoulders steady, keeping me safe. John, my soldier, my doctor, my best friend, keeping me safe._

"This alright?" John asked, after a few moments of getting settled.

"This is more alright than I've been in months, John."  _Side effect of closeness with John: lowered inhibitions. Keep a closer eye on yourself._

John let out a long, steady breath and Sherlock memorized the feeling of it unsettling the hair from the top of his head and the way it tickled his eyelashes.

"Good. This is good. For us. This is okay." John said, more for himself than for Sherlock.

Sherlock nuzzled his face closer into John's warmth. "Goodnight, John. Get some rest."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

_It's always you, John Watson. You keep me right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people curious- still no word on my heart condition. Almost went back to the hospital today but I decided to say 'fuck it' and just see what happens. I have some more tests tomorrow. Still can't work, still can't even really take a proper shower. It's getting old. I'm getting tired. All in all, it's a big crock of shit.


	13. You Can't Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles with his grief and depression, while Sherlock tries to be there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: suicidal ideation this chapter

Sherlock spent the night cataloging new sensations in his Mind Palace.  _The sensation of John's bare back against my bare chest, the way my knee wedges perfectly against the back of his thighs, his breathing pattern when he is sleeping peacefully, his unconscious smile when I run my fingertips against his knuckles or through his hair, the way his eyes move beneath his eyelids, the way the worry lines disappear and he looks like the John that told me I was amazing..._

He became aware of the fact that John had woken, not because John told him, but because the soldier tensed underneath Sherlock's arms and his breathing was no longer soft and smooth as it had been for the past few hours.

"Are you in pain, John?"

"Yeah." His voice was flat and monotone, nothing like the voice Sherlock was used to hearing from his blogger.

"I can get you something for it," Sherlock offered, trying not to make the worry evident in his voice. John's uninjured arm, which was still wrapped around Sherlock's back, pressed Sherlock into his side and held him tighter.

"No." 

"John, something else is wrong. Besides the pain. Tell me what it is or I'll deduce it."

"No."  _Everything is wrong, Sherlock. My wife was buried yesterday and I am in bed with a man, and it is the most comforting thing I can imagine, and that's what makes it wrong. My baby is gone and I'll never see here again, and it's wrong. It's all so wrong. Your chest pressed against my side is the only thing that doesn't feel wrong, but it is, because that's where my Mary should be. My Mary and my baby girl. But you're still here, Sherlock. You're all I have left, and I''m so thankful you're still here, but I hate it. I hate this. I need you. I need you right here._

"If you don't tell me or let me figure it out, I can't help."  _He's so still. I wouldn't know he was breathing if my ear wasn't resting on his chest. Overwhelmed. Depressed._

"You can't help."  _You can't bring my baby girl back, Sherlock. You might be able to defy death, but you can't bring people back. No matter how much we both love them._

Sherlock didn't have an answer to that. If John didn't think he could help, he probably couldn't.  _What is it that John always does? Most people eat in the morning. Maybe he's hungry. Or thirsty? Oh. Tea!_ "Tea, John?"

"No."  _Oh, damn. I should have just said yes. He's going to read a lot into this._ _  
_

_John doesn't want tea. This is not right. John always wants tea. John wants tea before work and after work and after madmen strap semtex vests to him and after he's pulled from bonfires and when I wake him up in the dead of the night for a triple homicide. John should want tea_. "John, if you intended to alarm me, you've succeeded. Stop this nonsense. Tell me what to do to make you better, and I'll do it. I'll make tea. I'll cook breakfast. I'll do whatever you need, but you can't expect me to lie here and watch you suffer."

"Then you should go. Because that's all you can do." John extracted himself from underneath Sherlock and rolled to his side so that Sherlock was facing his back.  _I don't want him to see me like this anyway. I don't want anyone to see me like this._

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. He studied John's back, the way the man was tensed against the pain, the shallow breaths he took to avoid moving his ribs, and the way his shoulders slumped against the bed.  _He's giving up. Hopeless._

"John, I'm going to make tea. I'm going to get you something for pain, and when I come back in here, you're going to take it. This behavior is unacceptable." Sherlock jumped up from the bed and made his way quickly out to the kitchen, absent-mindedly tying his dressing gown around himself in the process.

John was left alone in the bedroom, thinking about the bottle of sleeping pills he knew was in the bedside drawer right next to him.  _How many could I swallow dry? Maybe two at once. It would take a while, to get enough. It'd be easier with the tea. No, I can't do that with tea Sherlock's made me. That would be just as wrong as everything else. Stop thinking like this. Stop it. But maybe just a few, just a couple and I could go back to sleep for a while. Sleep for a while and not think about my baby girl. Just a couple. Two or three._

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks at the doorway when he returned with the tea, toast, and painkillers, but only remained still for moment while he processed the scene before him.  _John, sitting on the side of the bed with my unopened bottle of sleeping pills. Staring at it as if it were the Second Coming of Christ. Slight tremor in his left hand, rattling the pills against the plastic just barely. God, no, he couldn't have been thinking that. Already? I only left him for five minutes! This is absurd! As if adding another fatality to the list is going to make the situation better, John. For God's sake. Use your brain once and a while._

Sherlock walked quietly into the room, left the tea and toast on the ground near the bed, and sat down next to John. John did not acknowledge him. Sherlock, unsure of how to approach something so delicate, spoke to John with the voice he used to convince hysterical witnesses that he truly cared about their late spouses, although in this case, it was true. His voice was low and soft, not wanting to startle John. "Could I have those pills back, John?"

The only indication Sherlock had that John had heard him was that John's fingers loosened on the bottle, ever so slightly, so Sherlock reached over and liberated it from John's grasp. "Ta, John. I'm glad you didn't take any. I'm not quite sure what to do from here though; you're the medical professional. I'm really... out of my element here. What helped you, last time? Can you tell me?"

John's voice was hauntingly flat as he replied to Sherlock, "Nothing helped. Except Mary, but she didn't even help as much as people thought. I just let them think I was alright. You coming back helped. But Mary and Elizabeth aren't coming back, Sherlock. They're never coming back. Why am I expected to live through the death of my best friend, and then the deaths of my wife and baby girl? I can't do it. I don't want to. I shouldn't have to." By the time he had finished, he was whispering and Sherlock had to strain to hear him. 

"John, I don't know why. I can't tell you why some people die and some people don't, aside from the statistics of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you can do this. You've done it before." Sherlock hesitated at the last bit, feeling his guilt creeping back up on him.

"You don't know, Sherlock. I didn't do it before. Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson did it, until Mary swooped in to save the day. I gave up. I stopped eating, drinking, bathing. I couldn't work. Greg came by about three times a week and that was the only time I ate anything. He manhandled me into the shower with all my clothes on a couple times. Molly and Mrs. Hudson brought groceries but they were all wasted. I couldn't leave the flat. After Mrs. Hudson found me trying to eat my gun, I promised her I'd get better, but it was a lie. I moved out, because being here made me want to die to be with you. I went to work because Mycroft was paying the rent here, not at my new flat. And then Mary came, and after a while, it was just easier to pretend that everything was okay. I made it, but not because I'm strong. I made it because the people who love me couldn't let me go. I wish they had. I wish Mrs. Hudson never found me. I can't live like this anymore. It's not living. Breathing while my baby girl is buried in the ground is not living. It's a sick joke and I'm tired of it. I just... I just want to be done. I'm so tired." Silent tears were dripping from John's eyes into his open hands, but he was as still as a rock. He still spoke in that haunted whisper that Sherlock never wanted to get used to hearing. Sherlock felt a pain in his chest, and forced the feeling away, damning sentiment to hell again.

"John, I'm sorry, but you know I can't let you go," Sherlock murmured, still sitting next to John but unsure of where to put his hands. Cautiously, he circled one arm around John's shoulders and was reassured by the small pressure of John leaning into his arm. 

"Having you here helps." John had closed his eyes, as if he were suddenly aware that he had been crying. "But I don't know if it helps enough. Part of me is afraid of what I might do, but more of me just wants it to end."

"I can call Geoff. He knows how to take care of you. He can tell me what to do."

"It's Greg, Sherlock. At least remember his name if you're going to call him. But I don't see how he could do anything more than you are."  _They might as well send me to an institution._

Sherlock pondered for a moment, wondering what Greg might be able to help with.  _Certainly, this can pass. It's just going to take time. But I can't leave John alone until I'm sure he's not going to harm himself. Perhaps Geoff- no, Greg- would be amicable to coming over and sitting with John when I can not. Surely, he has vacation stored up, he hasn't gone on one since two years before his divorce._

"John, I don't know what to do to help you but to wait this out. It's not really my area. But I can't leave you alone, either." John nodded in understanding. "I can't watch you 24/7. Would you mind if I asked... Greg if he could come help me prevent you from... harming yourself?"

John sighed, reluctant but quickly conceding. "Yeah, that's... That's fine. I would probably do the same thing in your situation."

"But you're uncomfortable with it."

"Well, yeah, Sherlock, being emotionally unstable is a bit not good and a bit embarrassing."

"Greg has seen you like this before though, so won't that be better?"

"Um, no. It kind of makes it worse."

"Oh. Well I'm going to call him anyway."

"That's fine. Go ahead." John's posture was defeated, his shoulders sagging lower than they had a few moments ago, his head bowed, and hands lifeless in his lap. Sherlock's arm was still around him, and both men were slightly surprised when Sherlock pulled John closer and, as if with some sort of instinct, pressed his lips lightly into John's hair, giving him just the barest hint of a kiss on the side of his head, just above John's ear. 

"We will get through this, John. I promise you," Sherlock whispered to John before pulling out his mobile and texting Lestrade. 


	14. A Delicate Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg comes to help Sherlock and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for discussion of suicide and a brief mention of past abuse. john has zero healthy coping mechanisms.

**You're needed at Baker Street. -SH**

**I'm working, Sherlock. -GL**

**Irrelevant. -SH**

**Not irrelevant. -GL**

**I'm not asking you to bring the whole of Scotland Yard this time. -SH**

**I'm busy, Sherlock. I don't have time for this. -GL**

**John Watson is suicidal. I don't know what to do. -SH**

**Shit. -GL**

**Stay with him. 10 minutes. -GL**

True to his word, Greg Lestrade was jogging up the stairs of 221B exactly nine minutes and thirty five seconds after his last text to Sherlock. The door was unlocked, so he quickly made his way inside.

"Uh, hello?"

"In here, Lestrade," called Sherlock's voice from the general direction of his bedroom. Greg paused at the doorway, preparing himself for a disaster similar to the one Sherlock left when he faked his death. Entering the room, he found John sitting on the edge of the bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants with Sherlock's arm around him. John's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock was gently rubbing John's neck, avoiding the still-healing incision from his surgery. Greg crossed over to the pair and pulled the chair up so that he could sit facing John. John cracked his eyes open to look at Greg, not bothering to hide the pain that he knew was obvious on his face, even for people who aren't Sherlock.

"Greg, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to have to-" John started, but Greg cut him off.

"Nope, none of that. No apologizing. We've been over this, mate." Greg didn't take his eyes off of John's, but he could feel Sherlock's gaze drilling a hole straight through him. John sighed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be able to get around Greg's "ground rules," as he liked to call them.  _No apologizing for feeling like a sack of shit. No starving yourself. No hurting yourself. No lying to get people to leave you alone long enough to off yourself._

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John's tone was defeated, and he closed his eyes again, turning his face into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's hand worked its way from John's neck to his shoulders, squeezing him gently in an effort to reassure him.

"I'm gonna stay a couple days, I think, right, Sherlock? Until we can get this all settled." Greg looked to Sherlock, who nodded in silent assent. 

"Greg, really, I don't want you to take off time from work."

"It's fine, John. It's this or I take you to the hospital. You know that. You're a danger to yourself." At that, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Greg, surprised the man had been so frank.  _Isn't this supposed to be a delicate matter? Shouldn't we be more careful about his feelings? Not that I have a great history with John Watson's feelings._

"I'm just being honest with him, Sherlock. That's the deal. I'm honest with him and he's honest with me. Right, John?"

"Yeah," John said, muffled by Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you slept? No, don't answer that, I can see the bags under your eyes. John and I are going to eat something. You're going to stay here and sleep. For at least four hours. Nope, no arguing, you called me for help and I'm helping. Get your arse in bed." Greg ordered, as he helped John to his feet. John groaned, still needing the pain meds that Sherlock had brought in with the now-cold tea. 

"Easy, mate. Can you walk? Or do you need me to push you in the chair?" 

"I... I can walk. Let me lean on you."

John and Greg made their way out of the room while Sherlock pouted in bed for a couple of minutes before drifting off.  _Why did I call him? He wants me to sleep while John is upset. How does he expect that to help? My transport does seem to be tired though... How long has it been since I slept? Not sure. Perhaps Gregory is right. A bit not good. Just a brief rest..._

Greg helped John to the sofa, letting the weary man lay down on his side and pulling a blanket over him before pulling up the chair. He sat facing John, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. Greg scrubbed one of his hands over his face and sighed, not entirely sure what to do, despite the fact that he had seen John in far worse conditions before.  _Christ, if Sherlock thinks this is bad, he should have been here the night Harry came by and tried to get John to drink away his grief after the git's fake suicide._

"John, have you talked to Ella?"

"No-pe," John said, popping his lips on the "p" the way Sherlock does when he's intent on being uncooperative.

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Well, mate, it's not rocket science. You're a doctor. You know the healthy stages of grief. Trying to off yourself is not one of the stages."

"Talking to Ella would require wanting to get better."

"So you want to feel like this for the rest of your life, then?"

"Considering I don't want  _the rest of my life_  to last any longer than it already has, yeah, sure. I don't care anymore. I'm finished trying."

"The funeral was yesterday, John, don't you think that's a bit of a hasty decision?"

"What are you, Greg, the judge and the jury?" John's voice was dripping with distain and anger, so Greg tried to backpedal.

"Sorry, mate, I'm just trying to understand what's going on in your head. Trying to see your logic." Greg was met with stony silence as John rolled to glare at the ceiling instead of the DI. "Okay, fine. Never mind. Let me get some warm tea and your pain meds, okay?" He pushed himself up from the chair and started the tea.

"Yeah. Ta." John's weary voice responded after Greg had already reached the kitchen. After a few moments, he spoke up again. "Greg, I'm sorry."

By that time, Greg was walking back from the kitchen with tea, biscuits, and painkillers. Sitting the spread on the coffee table, he sat down next to John again, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know, mate. It's alright. How about we drink the tea before it goes cold again?"

"Yeah, okay."

For some time, the two men sat in silence. After the tea and biscuits were gone, mostly thanks to Greg, John laid back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling again. He closed his eyes and then let out a long breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. Greg, who had been sitting in the armchair staring into his empty mug, looked over at John in surprise when he started speaking, as if he had forgotten they were in the room together. 

"I keep asking myself, 'Do you think Mary would have wanted this for you? Wouldn't it honor her memory to be happy? To be alive?' And then I realize, I don't know what she wanted for me. I don't even know who she was. I'll never know who she was, but I'll always know that the woman I married was a liar. A fraud. All she ever did was lie to me, and maybe all she would have done was lie to Elizabeth. Who am I to have a child with a woman like that? To try to raise my daughter with an assassin? Christ, Greg.

"Elizabeth would have had to grow up with a monster for a mother, with a hidden past. She was innocent. She didn't deserve that. Hell, I didn't deserve that. What did I do, Greg? What in my life have I done to deserve this? All of this, again? Any of it? It's all been such shit. All the fucking shit.

"I grew up taking beatings to protect Harry from our father after Mum died. Then she runs off and leaves me with the bastard so she can drink herself to death by alcoholic hepatitis. She fucking left me there. I finally got out, got an education, found a purpose. They shipped me out to the desert and I saved lives, Greg. But not enough lives. There's only so much you can do in the field, and they just kept bleeding and dying. They were kids. I watched kids die because they were missing limbs or faces or had bullet holes in the wrong places. Those kids kept dying, but instead of letting myself die when I had the chance, when I could have had a honorable death, I fucking prayed to God to live, and I don't know why. I don't pray. I don't even know if I believe in God. Why couldn't I just die when everyone around me was screaming for relief from the pain? Why couldn't I fucking let go?

"This suicidal ideation thing isn't new for me, Greg, in case you were wondering. No-pe," he smacked his lips again. "When I was invalided home and living in that fucking beige casket of a bedsit, I had to talk myself down almost every day. Dunno why I bothered. Nobody would have cared. Nobody would have be disappointed. Instead I decided I would watch those kids bleed to death every fucking night, to torture myself. I must be a fucking masochist.

"And then Sherlock happened. And I didn't have to explain myself to him, because he already knew. He knew about my father and Harry and the PTSD and the scars. The only thing he got wrong, you know, was he thought Harry was a man. Sherlock, he- argh-" John pushed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. He took a few deep breaths, resumed his staring contest with the ceiling, and continued, "He made me feel alive again. It was the first time I  _wanted_ to live in _so long_ , Greg. I didn't remember what it was like, wanting to be alive.

"And then he fucking left me, too. He left and everything fell apart and I hate myself for it. I'm a fucking army doctor, but I witness one suicide, and I fall to bloody pieces. He left me, Greg. He left everyone, he left you, I  _know_ , but he  _left me_. After my father and after Harry and after the war, he put me back together just to fucking leave me. I keep trying to forgive him, and part of me does, I think I do. I think I forgive him. He was hurt, too, you know. But I still hurt. I still hurt from him leaving and he isn't even dead.

"And then Mary came, and she put me back together after Sherlock the way he put me back together after the war. I wasn't quite okay though, not this time, not after everything else. But I could manage. I had Mary and I thought she loved me. I thought I knew her. And then Sherlock came back. God, Greg, he came back and I assaulted him. But he was back. He was here. He  _is_ here. He came back and I had Mary- who I thought Mary was. I could have been okay. Maybe I could have been happy.

"But then everything was  _wrong again_. All over again, Greg. It was all wrong and she wasn't really Mary and for all I know, she was working for Moriarty. And then she was _pregnant_ , Greg. The assassin. This is what happens when I'm happy. This is what I get. The man I love is tortured in a prison camp for weeks, comes home wounded and vulnerable, so I assault him and then impregnate an assassin who has hidden her identity from me since the day we met!  _This is the life of John fucking Hamish Watson!"_  At  _the man I love_ , Greg raised his eyebrows, but stayed silent. John's voice was growing raw and uneven, but Greg didn't want to interrupt what he hoped was a cathartic speech. _  
_

"But my baby girl, Greg, she is so beautiful. She was. She was so beautiful, and how could I hate the woman who gave her to me? How? Except I don't know her. I won't ever know her, except through her lies. She was crushing me under all of her lies, Greg. I don't know how much longer we would have stayed together. Except maybe we could have worked it out, for Elizabeth. She was so beautiful and so happy and full of life. I was happy when I held her, Greg. I was so happy. My- my baby girl, God, I loved her. I love her. I can't take this. I c- can't be here when she is gone. I can't live like t- this. My father and Harry and the war and Sh- Sherlock and Mary and Eliz- Eliz- my sweet, sweet baby girl. It's all been too much for too long and I can't _do it_ any more. I can't t- take any more. I don't want to try. I don't want to  _exist,"_ John was openly crying now, the tears streaking out of the corners of his eyes and running down around his earlobes. 

Greg quietly got out of his chair and sat on the edge of sofa near John's hips. He reached forward and placed his hand on John's forearm, which was crossed over his stomach. "John, I can't say anything to make this better. But I want you to know I'm here. And Sherlock is here. We aren't going to let you kill yourself, mate. But we aren't gonna leave you. I promise."

Greg wasn't sure how long they sat together in silence, or how long Sherlock had been standing in the shadow by the stairs before he noticed him there, but he didn't move until John had fallen into what seemed to be a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the prayers and thoughts and positive vibes for my health. I've been unable to work for about a month and a half now, but at least I'm not in the hospital. It turned out not to be pheochromocytoma. They're not sure exactly what's wrong with me, but they put me on the same medicine they give people with Addison's Disease and it seems to be helping, however marginally. 
> 
> I might actually be getting better. I'm reserving judgement for when I can go back to work.


	15. It May be Unconventional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces the love out of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another monologue here. Hopefully not many more of those. Sorry if they're annoying. But at least this one is full of Johnlock goodness.

Greg looked up from John's sleeping form and met Sherlock's gaze from across the room. For one of the first times, Greg could see that Sherlock wasn't bothering to maintain his normally stony exterior.  _Christ, he is wrecked. This is not good._

"Thought I told you to sleep," Greg said, clearly indicating that he never thought Sherlock was going to listen to him in the first place.

Sherlock's answer was a phrase that Greg had never heard from Sherlock before today, and he hoped to God he would stop hearing it soon. "I don't know what to do."

"How about you start by helping me clean this place up a bit, yeah? Get the dishes from your room. And get some of your contaminated shit out of the fridge so I can make John a proper meal tonight. He needs to eat food that hasn't been sitting next to dismembered body parts for over a week." Greg reminded himself of his mother, in times of crisis. _'_ _I can cook and clean my way out of any mess. This house doesn't need to look like a disaster area just because the rest of the world is," is what she used to say._  

Sherlock grunted in reply, but soon enough Greg was washing the dishes and handing them to Sherlock to dry. Not that Sherlock was doing much drying, anyway. He eventually abandoned the position altogether, preferring to perch on the side of the sofa and gently run his fingers through John's sandy blond hair while the man slept. Sherlock supposed he might as well dispense the pretense with Greg.  _John did just tell him he loved me. Maybe loves. Irrelevant. Delete. Greg clearly knows how I feel about John, just as clearly as Mycroft does. No sense in pretending otherwise to suit anyone's delicate sensibilities._

Greg gave the two some space for a couple of minutes while he attempted to clear the fridge of any biohazards and food borne pathogens.  _John is a saint for putting up with this shit._ Once he thought there might be a safe place to store food, he decided it was about time for a trip to Tesco.  _Since I definitely do not want to eat picked toes for dinner._

John was just beginning to rouse from his nap when Greg made his way back into the room. Sherlock had moved to sit on the end of the couch, with John's calves and feet resting on his lap. 

"Guys, I'm gonna run to Tesco. You don't have anything but milk and tea. Any requests?"

"I'm not hungry," they both said in unison, and then glared at each other. 

"Okay, okay. You're not hungry. But we all know you both want to say 'but you have to eat something,' to the other, and nobody is starving on my watch. So, if the big, bad DI is forcing you to eat, what do you want?" The big, bad DI was met with silence from John and an eye roll from Sherlock. "Fine, but don't come crying to me if you don't like what I pick."  _Good god, the both of them may as well be teenage girls._

After the door closed, Sherlock glanced across the sofa to meet John's eyes briefly before smirking and then giggling to himself. At John's perplexed look, he explained, "He thinks we're acting like teenage girls. Can you imagine Lestrade, with two  _teenagers?_ John! It's preposterous!" He shortly dissolved into giggles again, earning a weak smile from John. In the end, Sherlock will look back at this moment and pinpoint it as the moment he knew John was going to recover. That weak, sad smile had just enough of a hint of the John from before Mary and before Sherlock's fall, that Sherlock knew he was still there, underneath the piles of hurt and betrayal that he had been saddled with.

After regaining control of himself, Sherlock looked down to find that he was absentmindedly rubbing his thumb across John's kneecap with one hand and holding John's hand with the other. He was unsure of who had reached out to who first, but here they were, sitting on the sofa in dressing gowns and pajamas, fingers interlaced with one another's, and Sherlock tracing the ridges and dips of John's patella with his thumb.

John followed Sherlock's gaze to their intertwined hands, and they both started and stopped speaking at the same time before actually beginning the conversation they had both been steadfastly avoiding for years now.

"Sherlock, I just find it-"  _I find it difficult, this sort of stuff._

"John, it's not really my-"  _It's not really my area._ _  
_

John looked away, while Sherlock's deducing eyes pierced through him. John knew, from the sharp intake of Sherlock's breath, that he was about to embark on the type of long rant generally reserved for solving cases and making Anderson feel like an incompetent fool.

"I know that while it may be unconventional for this type of conversation, I'd rather just lay all of my deductions out for you, like I usually do, and allow you to do with them what you wish. You find it difficult and it's not my area, so it's safe to say that otherwise we will simply continue to fumble our way through whatever  _this_ is between us, which most certainly is not something that is  _flatmates_ or _only friends_ but is also not decidedly something that is romantic, at least not at this point. And, I've been informed that you may appreciate transparency on my part, regardless of the fact that both you and I may be made uncomfortable by these  _feelings_ that I seem incapable of relegating to a less prominent area of my consciousness," Sherlock paused, glanced at John's face, took his expression as permission to continue, and plowed ahead. 

"Contrary to popular belief- in particular,  _Mycroft's_ belief- I am not completely unaware of the romantic inklings of the people around me, nor am I blind to my own desires. Rather, I found that it was easier to concentrate on The Work without the hinderance of any type of relationship with other people. I distance myself from those I interact with, preventing any sort of attachment from either party, and this practice has served me well for many years. Efficient, professional relationships with my colleagues, and that's all I ever needed.

"You have to understand, John, that it was all I ever needed because I had not yet experienced a relationship that demonstrated to me the vast benefits of  _caring._ I was unaware that there was such a thing, John, until the night you shot the cabbie. For whatever reason, you  _cared_ , and because of that,  _I lived_. That was not the first deduction I made about you, but it was the first important one. You shot that man, with no thought of your own safety or reputation, because you cared about whether I lived, not because he was a murderer. You shot him to  _save a life_  as the first priority and with  _taking a life_ as the second. 

"Since that night, all you have done for me is care. Here are my observations: You have tirelessly shown me patience and sincerity and loyalty, without asking for anything in return, besides the minor requests to not drug or experiment on you. You have chased me around this city, day and night, and saved my life time and time again, selflessly. You put up with dangerous experiments on the kitchen table and chilled disembodied heads in the refrigerator. You kept me clean without making me _talk about_ staying clean, something Mycroft has yet to figure out how to manage. Before I died, you did everything that a best friend would do, and maybe some things that were more than that.

"And then I died to save you, the way you had saved me, except it was so much more horrible for you, because I was dead. I'm sorry, still. That's worth mentioning. I'm still so, so sorry John. I will never stop being sorry for hurting you. But, I digress, this is when I made some of my more important observations. You visited my grave, like a best friend would. But you visited  _often_ , indicating a level of grief much more suited for a  _widower_ than a  _friend_. You tended to my grave often enough that Mycroft ended up firing the man he had hired to maintain it. 

"When I returned, rather than embracing me as a friend would, the way Lestrade did, you attacked me the way a betrayed lover would. I realized, then, that you did not experience the hurt that a friend would feel over my death. You experienced the grief of losing the person you loved most, and that was not something I had been prepared for. I had miscalculated the effect this would have on you, and further miscalculated the damage I would do by returning to you with no warning. This, alone, is enough evidence to deduce that you care about me far more than an average  _friend_ and probably even more than a  _best friend_.

"When I combine those observations with the more obvious ones- you staunchly refusing any accusations that you are  _gay_ but never suggesting you are  _straight_ , the way you caressed my leg on your stag night and then let me fall asleep holding your hand in the jail cell we found ourselves in because you could tell I was uncomfortable, even though you knew nothing of Serbia at that time, the way your body responds when your skin touches mine or when I stand too close- it's clear how you feel. It's clear that you feel about me much the way I feel about you. You're just unsure about defining whatever  _this_ is, especially considering recent events, and that's perfectly fine.

"I'm aware that you may not have deduced from me all that I have deduced from you, but judging from your expression, you'd like me to cut this short, so I'll skip the deductions of my own behavior and tell you simply. John Watson, I care about you deeply, and I have found that it has made me a better man. You are a conductor of light, and with you, my world is brighter than it ever was before. I have killed for you- both myself and Mangussen, and countless of Moriarty's web- and I am prepared to do it again, as I am sure you are for me. You have proven to me that caring is not a disadvantage, but a deadly weapon. Having wielded such a weapon, I am unwilling to relinquish it for the sake of keeping up appearances of indifference."

Looking down from John's face again, Sherlock was pleased to realize that John had not let go of his hand, despite his slightly affronted expression. He was all forehead creases and crinkled eyebrows, with his mouth slightly open.  _This must be a lot for him to digest. I'll wait._ Several minutes later, John found his voice, but he said far less than Sherlock had expected.  _Always an enigma, John._

"Of course I love you, you bloody drama queen." John then squeezed Sherlock's hand, and used him as leverage to pull himself into a sitting position before removing his feet from Sherlock's lap. He leaned closer to the detective to rest his head on the dip between Sherlock's collarbone and shoulder, while Sherlock's arms wrapped around him and held him close. 

_Of course._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments for me? They make me absurdly happy. And a happy writer is a writer that updates... ;)
> 
> Also... I'm thinking about possibly working a case in here. Mary's and Elizabeth's deaths might not be what we thought they were. Is this something you would enjoy, readers?


	16. A Little Comfort and a Lot of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg goes grocery shopping, Sherlock has an anxiety attack while looking at a cold case photo, and John naps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is puke in this chapter. It's gross. You've been warned.

Greg didn't realize quite how tired he was until he was standing in the checkout line at Tesco, leaning heavily on his shopping cart. He'd gone straight back to work after the funeral, and had only managed managed brief cat naps here and there while working relentlessly on his newest case. In fact, he was still wearing wrinkled clothes from yesterday. The case he was working on could easily rank in the top ten list of "Most Disturbing Cases of Greg Lestrade's Career," and frankly, he was glad to have an excuse to get away for a couple of days. _Sally can handle it_. The fact that Sherlock hadn't commented on his state of exhaustion and poor dress spoke volumes of the man's own worries about John. Greg just hoped that getting Sherlock and John to eat something of substance wouldn't be quite as challenging as his day job.

By the time he had left the store, he had several bags of groceries but still no idea as to what he was going to cook. He'd figure something out, though. He always does, it seems. He might not be the most sensitive guy around, but if he was anything, he was good in a crisis. At work, he handled it with critical thinking, intelligent delegation, and coffee. At home, or in this case his friends' home, he handled it the way his mother taught him to- with plenty of rest, balanced meals, and honesty. He'd done this for a couple of his friends before, and he'd do it again now. If he was a little more worried about it this time, he wasn't going to admit it to himself or anyone else, though.

He supposed people had a tendency to call him for help because everyone knew he dealt with the dark underbelly of humanity every day at work. Surely, if someone should be worried about being judged, it wouldn't be by Greg, unless they were doing something illegal. More often than not, they'd just needed a steady hand on their shoulder, a hot meal in their belly, and another body in their suddenly-empty home. These things, while heartbreakingly painful, worked themselves out with a little comfort and a lot of time.  _People just need somebody to hold up the fort while they take the time to pull themselves back together._

Lugging the groceries up the stairs, he could hear Sherlock speaking softly to John, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying.  _Everything sounds calm, though. That's good at least. I think we all need a little calm for a while._

"Hey, I'm back. Just going to get this stuff put away. We're having burgers and chips tonight." Greg said, while walking through the flat to the kitchen. He heard a soft "Ta, Greg," from John and a noncommittal mumble from Sherlock, who had a cold case file open on his lap and an arm around John's shoulders. One of them had turned on the television to old episodes of Doctor Who, and it was playing at a low, relaxing volume.  _Good. Get a sense of normalcy back into this place._  

The evening was quickly approaching, Greg was starving, and he knew Sherlock and John hadn't had much to eat recently, but he couldn't talk himself out of taking a quick break from the stress of the past 72 hours. He mumbled something to Sherlock about "starting the food around five, I guess" and lowered his aching body into an armchair. He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke to the sound of Sherlock's voice, sounding slightly more stressed than he was used to hearing it.

"John, John budge over. I've- I've got to get- to get up," he said, gently, but firmly, nudging John out from under his arm and jumping up from the sofa rather hastily, leaving a bewildered John in his wake as he fled the room. Greg stepped over to the couch to straighten the abandoned case file, picking up a photograph of the mutilated corpse of a child. At the same time, he heard retching from the direction of the loo.  _Oh, shit. Is he ill? Was it the photo? Bodies have never bothered him before._

Apparently John saw the photo as well, and answered Greg's question without being asked. "Greg, go make sure he's okay. He went pale as soon as he saw the picture. It probably reminded him of-" John paused, not wanting to say Elizabeth's name and break down into tears again. "He saw her, after the accident. Her and Mary. He said it was pretty bad. Go make sure he's okay. I'm fine. Really."

"Shit. Yeah," Greg said to John before walking quickly to the loo, where he found Sherlock kneeling in front of the toilet. He was trembling and even paler than usual, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. A thin line of saliva dangled from his lower lip before he spat reproachfully into the bowl. 

"Get the fuck out, Lestrade. You're here for John, not me," he muttered, taking slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm his stomach. 

"Um, nope, I'm here for the both of you. And John asked me to make sure you're alright anyway. How about you tell me what's going on in that head of your's?"

In response, Sherlock sighed the type of sigh one generally hears from a moody teenager rather than a grown man. Greg grabbed a clean-looking cup from the counter, filled it with cool water, and pressed it into Sherlock's hand along with a damp flannel. Sherlock rinsed out his mouth, wiped off his face, and leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. It was clear that Sherlock was struggling to get himself under control. His breath hitched every thirty seconds or so, and his eyelashes were conspicuously more moist than they had been when Greg entered the room. Greg leaned against the sink, waiting for Sherlock to say something. After a few minutes, he did.

"I thought I asked you to leave."

"If only you had been that polite, maybe I would have."

"No you wouldn't. You can tell that I'm-" _slow inhale through the nose, out through the mouth, just keep breathing,_ "emotionally compromised and you wouldn't leave-"  _in through the nose, out through the mouth, you've done this plenty of times, you're fine,_  "any of the people you consider 'friends' if you decide that they-"  _in through the nose, out through the mouth, slower, getting to fast again,_ "need some kind of emotional support, however-"  _you are fine, keep breathing, slower, idiot,_ "ill-equipped you may be for comforting people."

"John thinks the photograph of the victim upset you, because you saw Elizabeth's and Mary's bodies in the morgue," Greg stated, cutting to the chase.

"John is far more perceptive than I give him credit for."  _Breathe, you goldfish. It's not fucking rocket science, and you even have a rudimentary understanding of that._

"Sherlock, if I had known, I wouldn't have given you-"

"I know. Shut up," Sherlock said, shoving his flat palm in Greg's general direction as a signal for him to stop. He was quickly hanging his head over the rim of the toilet bowl again, struggling to keep the rest of his stomach contents down. He swallowed reflexively, before gagging and heaving again. He closed his eyes against the force of it, willing away the images that brought it on.  _You have never been squeamish before. You are fine. This is transport. Control it._ A moment later, he noticed Greg handing him a fresh glass of water and the rinsed flannel. He nodded to Greg, hoping the man realized he was trying to thank him without saying the words. Several minutes later, despite the cool water, his mouth still tasted bitter, his throat was sore, and his sinuses burned. He glanced to his left and noticed that Greg had taken a seat on the floor.  _Christ, he looks as exhausted as I feel._ _He's wearing the same shirt he wore to the funeral._ Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it. 

"Don't talk about it, I'll vomit again. Please. I can't. It's too-" and before he could finish, he was emptying his stomach into London's sewer system again. Greg repeated the process with the water glass and the flannel, but this time he sat down closer to Sherlock. He held out his hands.

"Here, give me your wrists."

"What?"

"Your wrists. Hand them over." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but let Greg take his wrists in his hands. He watched apprehensively as Greg pressed his thumbs into an area on his wrists about three fingers' width down from the heel of his palm. He pressed down firmly, rubbing his thumbs in a small circular motion.

"You're hyperventilating, Sherlock. Watch my chest. Breath at the same time I do. There you go, mate. Better." After about three minutes of breathing and letting Greg work his wrists with his thumbs, Sherlock noticed his nausea beginning to fade.  _Oh, it's an anti-emetic acupressure point. Obviously._ He had stopped trembling and felt far more in control of himself than he had a few minutes ago.

"Thank you, Greg."

"Yeah, no problem. Nice to know that works for more than just chemo patients. Maybe I'll try it on myself next time I'm hungover."

 _His father, of course. He dealt with his fair share of vomiting, living with a cancer patient, surely._ "Yes, rather efficiently. Next time maybe do that a little earlier instead of just handing me a glass of water over and over. I'm fine now. Go see to John."

Greg rolled his eyes and chuckled at Sherlock under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. You're welcome." Stepping around the man who was still crouched on the floor, Greg returned to the sofa and sat down beside John, who looked as if he was beginning to doze off. He blinked his eyes a couple times before focusing on the DI.

"Is he alright? It was the photo, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, of course it was. He didn't bloody tell me it was an issue! I wouldn't have given him anything like that if I'd known."

"He's a bit stubborn when he's trying to prove his infallibility to the world. He would never say anything."

"Yeah, you've got a point. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah it's... it's not as bad as earlier. I'm not great. But I'm not feeling self-destructive if that's what you're wondering." Greg nodded, indicating he'd heard John, and leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

"I'm fucking knackered. And starving. And what time is it...?" He opened his eyes to glance around for the time. "Bloody hell, it's eight. I'll cook tomorrow. We'll have carry-out tonight, yeah?" He glanced at John for confirmation.

"Yeah, I don't care. Doubt Sherlock will be eating anything substantial though. Get him some soup."

"You're okay here, if I go pick something up? It might be a bit longer before he comes out of there," Greg asked, picking up on the sound of the shower running. 

"I'll be okay for a little bit. Get us some food. I'll try to convince myself I'm hungry while you're gone," John said, managing a weak half-smile that looked more like a grimace. Still, Greg could tell he was being honest, so the words reassured him.

"I'll be back soon, then. Let Sherlock know where I'm at when he comes out."

"I will. Thanks again, Greg. For everything."

"It's fine, John. I needed an excuse to get away from work for a couple days anyway. It's gonna be so nice to sleep for more than two hours tonight." Greg smiled at John before tiredly climbing down the steps, eager to get some sustenance into his body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely readers, who comment and give kudos. I love you all, and you make writing this so much more fun. 
> 
> Some of you have been asking how I've been doing, health-wise. Most of my symptoms are getting better, thanks to the medication they put me on a couple of weeks ago. I can walk around for a couple of hours at a time now and get up my stairs without help. I'm doing a lot better! The bad news is that my most recent blood work showed some pretty high levels of DHEA and mildly elevated cortisol. I'm not worried about the cortisol, but the DHEA was shockingly high. I spoke with my doctor this morning, and the words he used were "alarmingly high."
> 
> It's worrying, to say the least, when your doctor calls any results "alarming." They had me come in to the office today to get the test re-done, stat, and we'll have a confirmation of the results by Friday. The only time my doc has seen DHEA levels this high has been in cases of virilizing adrenal tumors (malignant OR nonmalignant), which is obviously a bit not good. If the result of the second test is the same, I anticipate a series of CT and MRI scans in my near future. 
> 
> So, thank you, again, for all of your well-wishes and prayers and thoughts. It means a lot to me. I'm feeling better, but I am fairly terrified at the prospect of having adrenal cancer. This shit is seriously frightening. I might have to write an entire chapter of Johnlock fluffy cuddles just to console myself.


	17. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks down in the shower, we learn a little more about Sherrinford Holmes, Mycroft is a good big brother, and then there are Johnlock cuddles and Chinese takeaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes parents in this fic are no longer BBC cannon. I do love the BBC Holmes parents, however. They're lovely. Just not in this fic.

John closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the couch despite the ache it caused in his mending cervical vertebrae. He listened to the familiar sounds of Sherlock showering down the hall, focusing on the dull patter of the water from the shower head that was punctuated with sharper spattering as Sherlock rinsed his hair. He noticed the man was taking slightly longer than usual, but he assumed that was par for the course after unexpectedly spending 45 minutes vomiting.  _He's almost just as torn up about Elizabeth as I am. Just his luck, he only really cares about a handful of people in this world, and then two of them are ripped away simply by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. 'Alone protects me,' maybe he's got a point there._

Down the hall, Sherlock scrubbed his skin furiously, frustrated with himself and how his transport was failing him.  _John needs me to be strong, not to break down out of the blue because of a bloody picture. I should be comforting him, keeping him safe, not cowering in the bathroom like a grief-ridden fool. I am above this. I am not a slave to sentiment. I very cautiously allowed some rare sentiment into my life, carefully monitored and restrained. This should not be the result of that allowance. The child in the picture hadn't even died the same way Elizabeth had! Her injuries were nowhere near as severe. It's not like the cavity of her chest had been ripped open by a chunk of steel._ Without his permission, images of Elizabeth's corpse flashed through his mind, but his body's reaction was nowhere near as violent this time as it had been before. Defeated and utterly exhausted, he slid down the wall until he was sitting in the bottom of the tub, his head resting against the ledge of John's shower bench. He had no energy to stand, much less to panic. He sat there, unmoving, for a few moments, feeling the spray of the water against the side of his face and neck, the mist clouding his vision slightly. He kept his eyes open, letting the droplets hit his eyeballs and splotch his view. _Like looking up into the sky while it rains._

It was exhausting, holding himself together for days, through the funeral, only for a single image to tear him apart against his will. He just didn't know what else to do. John needed him to be strong, to be the one to help him weather this storm. Before he realized it, he was thinking about the effect that the loss of Sherrinford had on his family, so many years ago. 

\---

When Sherrinford had finally died, his father became absent. His mother was left with no one to support her emotionally, and two boys to care for. She spent the rest of her days in a smokey haze of cigarettes and anxiety medication. Luckily, Mycroft needed little caring for at that point and fumbled his way through raising Sherlock without too many hiccups. _And he still seems to think he needs to protect me._

Somehow, Mycroft had powered through the loss of Sherrinford without letting anyone see the cracks it had made in his otherwise-solid foundation of cold logic and reason. Anyone, except Sherlock, of course.  _I don't think I've thought about this since the day it happened. Must have filed it away for some reason. It makes so much more sense now, knowing the feeling of real, human loss, and the feeling of responsibility to remain strong for someone I love._ Sherlock remembered the incident vividly, despite not having thought of it for decades. Mycroft was 16, and Sherlock was 9. It was just weeks after Sherrinford had 'passed' as Mummy called it, or 'was given up on' if you asked their father. Their father had been out on 'business' for several days, and no one was sure of when he would be returning, if at all. Their mother hadn't bothered to get out of bed for the duration of his absence.

Mycroft always cooked the meals, now. Sherlock didn't mind, considering Mycroft was an excellent cook, and there was always dessert, even if it wasn't a special occasion. But, instead of starting their evening meal around five, like usual, Mycroft had apparently decided to take a shower. _Odd_ , Sherlock had thought at the time.  _Mycroft is never late for food. And he has been in the loo for 40 minutes now._ Marching into the room, Sherlock expected to find his brother up to something mischievous, maybe stealing glances at one of their father's pornographic magazines. What he found surprised him. Sherlock stormed in without knocking, and found his brother sitting in the shower, legs bent to his chest, eyes to his knees, and fists balled up in his hair. The shower had gone cold about ten minutes ago, and his skin was goose-bumped. Though he was trembling everywhere, and his shoulders clearly wracked with sobs, he was completely silent. Sherlock stepped closer, terrified that something was wrong, and reached out for Mycroft's shaking shoulder. 

"...Myco? Why are you crying and not making any noise?" Sherlock asked, tentatively, not knowing what could possibly be so horrible that his brother, of all people, was sitting naked in the floor of a cold shower, wrecked with emotion.

Mycroft's head darted up the minute he heard Sherlock's voice. For a split second, his expression was a mixture of fear, grief, and embarrassment. The next second, he had rearranged his features into the impassible mask that he began wearing since Sherrinford had first taken ill. 

"Oh, Sher, dear boy. I apologize if I alarmed you. I'm fine. Hand me that towel, there, and I'll be out to put dinner together in a moment." Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before reaching for the towel and handing it to Mycroft, who had already shut off the running water.

"Myco, you were crying."

"Yes, privately, which you chose to interrupt." Mycroft struggled to make his voice sound disdainful, but it came out rather weak and rough.

"But you don't cry," Sherlock countered, which was an accurate statement. Mycroft, as a rule, did not cry. At least, not in front of people, and especially not in front of his little brother. By now, Sherlock seemed to be handling the current family disaster remarkably well, besides continually asking people if they realized they were going to die someday.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I have cried plenty of times since we came home from hospital without Sherrinford, Sherlock. Probably not as much as Mummy, but I have. This is what happens when you loose someone who you love. It's called grieving. You cry when you think about him sometimes too. You miss him. It's normal. Sometimes loving people hurts."

"I never see you cry."

"No, Sher, that was on purpose. Someone needs to keep it together to take care of you, and lord knows Mummy and Father aren't stepping up to the plate." Mycroft scrubbed a hand across his face, wishing one of his parents would have taken the time to have this conversation with Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he was up to it.

"You cry because you have to take care of me?" Sherlock eyes were huge, threatening to spill over tears of their own.

"No, no, no. Sher, not at all. No. I love taking care of you. You know that. I don't say it often, but I love you. I just don't want to worry you, so I come in here to get it out. It's just a release of energy. I'm perfectly fine. Everything's okay, and I don't want you to worry about it, alright?" Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were still wide and teary, so Mycroft sat down on the toilet seat lid in his dressing gown. "It's okay, Sher. I promise. Come here," Mycroft said, opening his arms towards the child as an offer to hug him. Hugging, and really any display of emotion in front of another human being, was uncomfortable for Mycroft. But, he knew physical contact and comfort were necessary for proper child development. He would be damned if he would raise a boy as damaged as himself, much to the chagrin of their father. 

Sherlock practically leapt into Mycroft's lap, which was far too small an area for him to occupy at nine years old, wrapped his arms around his brother's waist, and buried his face in the older boy's shoulder. They stayed in that position a little longer than Mycroft generally allowed, but neither mentioned it to the other. In fact, neither spoke of the incident again.

\---

Pulling himself out of his memories, Sherlock realized he had pressed a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to contain the sobs that were forcing their way out of his aching chest.  _Maybe Mycroft was on to something. Catharsis. Just let my body do this, alone, in private, and then I can continue on providing John with at least some semblance of normalcy._ After a few minutes of letting his silent tears mingle with the now-cold water of the shower on his face, he began to calm down.  _Although, this feels remarkably more 'numb' than 'better.' I guess I'll take what I can get. Stupid, fallible transport._

By the time Sherlock changed into clean pajamas and his dressing gown, his eyes were still a bit red-rimmed and swollen.  _John will know I've been crying. He's not that slow. But I can't just leave him out there, alone, to wait for Lestrade._  He rolled his eyes at the situation, huffed an annoyed breath, and walked back through the kitchen to the living room. John was staring at nothing in particular, clearly not watching the telly, which was still on. He made no move to acknowledge Sherlock had entered the room. Suddenly, Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to hold him.  _That's unusual. I certainly enjoy holding John, but generally only do so out of necessity, to make him feel better. Physical comfort is a coping mechanism for him. Not for me. I don't need coping mechanisms. I'm in control. But it appears there is nothing else my transport desires more than to have this man in my arms. No point in fighting it- he did say he loves me._

"John." John started and blinked up at Sherlock, who was now standing a few paces in front of him. 

"Um... yeah?"

"I would like to hold you," Sherlock said, his expression carefully impassive.

"You say that like it's something new," John replied, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"The circumstances are. You are not distressed. I hold you when you are distressed. I would like to do so now, despite your outward appearance of relative calmness."

John looked at Sherlock closer, taking in the details of his red eyes and pallor.  _No wonder he took so long in the shower. No doubt some 'can't cry in front of the grieving father' bullshit he's got in his head._

"I'd like that, Sherlock. Come here." John patted the seat next to him on the couch. Sherlock had barely settled himself before he was carefully pulling John into his arms, practically sitting the man in his lap. He pressed John to his chest, his arms around the doctor's shoulders and waist, and rested his cheek on top of John's soft hair. For the first time in hours, he felt as if he could breathe freely. The constriction in his chest was gone, as if someone had released him from a vice. 

John could feel the detective's body relax around him while he eased into the embrace. He felt the slight shuffle of his hair as Sherlock breathed across his scalp and listened to the man's heartbeat slow to a relaxing rhythm. _I wonder if Sherlock realizes that he's the only thing that makes me feel like I might be able to survive this._

"Thank you, John."

"You don't need to thank me. I'm sure you can deduce that this helps me just as much as it's helping you."

"I never thought physical closeness would be this comforting. I see the appeal now. It must have something to do with you in particular."

"You really don't know?"  _He can deduce by the buttons on my shirt if I've slept with a woman I took on a date, but he can't figure out that being close to someone you love is comforting. Of course._

"Why would I know? I hardly have enough data."  _Gathering more data would most likely prove to be an enjoyable experience, however._

"It has more to do with you loving me than me in general, Sherlock."  _He is such a sweet idiot, sometimes. When he's not being a cock._

"Oh. Sentiment. Endorphins. I'm losing my touch."  _Idiot._

"You're not. You're tired, and this situation is a disaster, and this thing between us is new. It's a lot to deal with."  _I don't even know how to deal with it. I'm a new widower. This is too fast. But I'm not going to stop it. Not when either of us could die tomorrow._

"Stupid fallible transport."

"Yeah. We'll blame it on that." John snuggled his face closer to Sherlock's pectoral and squeezed him gently where his arms were tangled around the man's thin waist.

Greg chose that moment to climb up the stairs with the takeaway. John experienced a fleeting moment of embarrassment at their current situation, not being accustomed to finding himself in another bloke's lap around company. Greg,  _bless him_ , made no comment on their position while he clattered around the kitchen searching for plates and utensils. By the time he had returned to the living room with everyone's food, John had extracted himself from Sherlock's grasp and the two were sitting side by side. The three of them sat in companionable silence, watching the news while they ate their dinner. Sherlock didn't even raise too much of an argument when Greg insisted that he eat "at least one egg roll, for the love of God."

After dinner, Sherlock was acutely aware of just how excruciatingly tired he was. Greg was practically already sleeping in his lo mein. John's still-healing body wasn't up to being awake for more than a few hours at a time yet anyway, so his head had dropped down to rest on Sherlock's shoulder several minutes ago while he drifted off.

"Greg," Sherlock said, reaching out a hand to shake his knee to get his drowsy attention.

"Hm?" Greg blinked, reorienting himself and looking at Sherlock's tired eyes and John already sleeping on his shoulder.

"John and I are going to go to bed, once I wake him up. You can take the couch or John's old room. Linens are where they always are." Sherlock waved his hand in a general sweep of the flat, making it sorely obvious that he had no idea where the linens were and had never put the clean laundry away. 

"Oh, yeah, alright." Greg pushed himself into a standing position, while Sherlock nudged John awake and helped him to his feet. As they walked through the kitchen and down the hall, he noticed they were both apparently sleeping in Sherlock's room, which he was sure started out purely as convenience and was now some sort of mix of necessity and preference.  _At least they seem to have admitted it now. That's a step in the right direction, even if it's piss poor timing._

Greg didn't bother looking for any linen or pillow other than the blanket strewn across John's armchair and the Union Jack throw pillow. He was asleep before he even had a chance to pull the blanket across his chest, still in his clothes from the day before.

Sherlock and John, both bleary eyed and sleepy, fell into Sherlock's bed and into each other's arms quickly and wordlessly. John turned to his uninjured side, and Sherlock shimmied up behind him, pulled him to his chest, and nestled his face in the hair on the back of John's head. He only had the time to inhale John's scent once before nodding off, and John was quick to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, for commenting, for kudos-ing, for bookmarking, and for all the other wonderful things you do, lovely reader.
> 
> For those of you asking about my health- it appears the first blood work result was an error. My first result showed my DHEA level at 1382, which is indicative of a virilizing adrenal tumor or adrenal cancer, but my second result was 645, which is completely normal. Hopefully, this was all just a frightening lab error and I will continue to feel better as the days go by. Thank you, as always, for the thoughts and prayers! 
> 
> You are all wonderful. <3


	18. Birds Have the Audacity to Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's body heals while he still suffers from depression and grief from the loss of Mary and Elizabeth. Sherlock is a saint. Mycroft meddles behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. 
> 
> It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime." 
> 
> -Ray Bradbury, "Fahrenheit 451"

Greg woke around 4:30am, just like every other morning, except on this morning he wasn't rushing out the door to solve a murder or two- or five. This morning, all he had to do was sit around and wait for John and Sherlock to wake up. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the Union Jack pillow, soaking up the quiet of the morning. A few minutes later, his mobile's text alert chimed him back to semi-consciousness. 

**How are they? -MH**

**Do you ever sleep, Mycroft? They're fine. -GL**

**If they were fine, you wouldn't be there. -MH**

**They're fine, considering the circumstances. Relax. -GL**

**I will do no such thing. Don't tell me to relax. -MH**

**You will, or I'll stop letting you know how they are. -GL**

**Do I need to come there myself? Did you find his stash yet? -MH**

**Myc. Calm down. Sherlock is fine. He's asleep. With John. Perfectly safe. -GL**

**So you didn't find it yet. -MH**

Greg sighed,  _so much for a quiet morning,_ and gave up texting. He dialed Mycroft's number and listen to it ring once before the man picked up.

"No, Mycroft. I did not dismantle Sherlock's walls to locate a stash that my officers haven't found on three separate drugs busts. He is clean. Can you please relax for half a minute? It's 4:45 in the fucking morning for Christ's sake."

"You know as well as I do that he will not remain clean if he is tempted while in this fragile emotional state."

"Myc, he's doing fine. He's helping John, not desperately seeking out his next fix. Did I mention that it's not even five yet?"

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. He's focusing more on John than on himself. Lord knows they're both taking it hard though. But they're gonna be alright." Greg tried not to let his tiredness seep into his words too much, but Mycroft could hear the fatigue in his voice.

"I would say it's a danger night... but, it appears to be the morning now, and 'danger week' would be more accurate." Mycroft sounded just as fatigued as Greg.

"Have you been at work all night? Go home, Mycroft. You do this to yourself far too often."

"I'm looking in to something. It requires my full attention at the moment." _  
_

"Do I want to know?" _Probably not, this sounds ominous._

"Doubtful. Though you may become aware shortly."

"What? Was someone in Parliament murdered or something?"  _Christ, this is not what I need right now. I wonder how Sally is doing with the case I left her..._

"No government officials. We're unsure if there was indeed a homicide at all. I'll let you know." Mycroft didn't bother bidding Greg goodbye,  _hell, even a good morning would have been nice,_  before he abruptly ended the call. Greg rolled his eyes.  _Typical Holmes dramatics._

He wasn't going to break down Sherlock's wall to look for a stash that he wasn't sure even existed, and Mycroft was conceited to think he could force him to. _They're going to be fine, once John stops wishing he was dead and Sherlock stops blaming himself for every damned thing under the sun._ Greg relaxed back into the sofa, hoping to get a few more hours of rest.

At 6:37am, he woke again, this time to the sound of panicked shouting.

"Get her OUT! NOW! She's RIGHT THERE, PLEASE!"

Greg was on his feet with his hand on his gun, sprinting towards the racket, before he realized there wasn't an intruder.  _Oh, John. Poor bloke._

"JOHN! John, shh. It's alright, love. It's over. Breathe. There you go. It's okay, you're at Baker Street, shh now, come here," Sherlock was murmuring to John as he pulled the shaking man close to his chest. Greg stood silent in the doorway, not at all used to the sensitivity Sherlock had displayed recently. Knowing that neither man would want an audience, Greg slowly crept backwards until he was out of the doorway, and then proceeded down the hall to start the tea. 

\---

The mornings were the worst, they figured out after a couple of days. _It was the nightmares_ , John thought, o _r maybe the lack of sleep. Or the notion that birds have the audacity to sing and the sun continues to rise while my daughter's corpse rots in a box in the ground._ After three days of Greg sleeping on their couch, fumbling through awkwardly emotional conversations, cleaning up after Sherlock, cooking their food, and forcing them to eat at least half a serving of each meal, John decided he'd had enough of the suicide watch. He was depressed, and not even close to what most people would consider 'okay,' but he wasn't suicidal. Most of the time, he was too numb to be suicidal. Greg begrudgingly agreed that he should probably get back to his job, if there wasn't any imminent danger. He still came over for dinner, even if it meant taking a break from whatever case he was working on for an hour and then going right back to the Yard. 

John's body was healing well. He started attending physical therapy, under threats from Sherlock that he would leave "something unsightly" in the fridge. Considering Sherlock didn't seem to list severed heads and fingers under the "something unsightly" category, John didn't want to test him. They had the chair lift and the shower bench uninstalled. As his body got stronger, he fell back into the charade of "being okay" that he'd become so familiar with after Sherlock's suicide. He went back to work at the clinic, despite the fact that the smile he plastered on his face for his patients didn't quite seem to reach his eyes. He visited the graves of his wife and child several days a week, and then only once a week.

Sherlock, once satisfied that John was at least able to function for 8 hours a day at the clinic, threw himself back into The Work. For now, he only took cold cases, and only those not involving children. He wanted to be sure he was available after John returned from the clinic, but made sure he was still distracted for a short while after John returned home, so as not to raise the suspicion that he was scheduling The Work around John.  _That wouldn't do. John doesn't want to be coddled_. He did not think about Mary, and even more pointedly, did not think about Elizabeth. He thought about The Work and about John and about absolutely nothing else. 

Slowly, the men of Baker Street began to knit their lives back together. John made the tea in the morning, left for the clinic, and Sherlock worked through cold cases while he was gone. John returned home after work, aching and tired, made tea again, and reclined in his chair or on the sofa while Sherlock muttered about a case or sorted through files in his Mind Palace. On the days John visited the graves after work, Sherlock came to meet him after he had been there for precisely twenty minutes. He'd stand stoically beside his friend, sometimes placing a hand on his shoulder, sometimes offering a hand to hold. When John was ready, they'd get a taxi back to the flat. Greg came for dinner, which they ate in front of the evening news. They talked about murders or patients at the clinic, or sometimes patients at the clinic who had been murdered. 

Despite what most therapists would call progress, John was beginning to dread sleeping at this point. Sherlock picked up quickly on the pattern of John's increasing discomfort as night approached, and started taking measures to help him relax. He got into the habit of sliding into the sofa behind John after dinner, massaging his shoulders and neck where he held all of his tension from the day. Sherlock could practically feel the anxiety roll off the doctor in waves as he worked the knots in John's muscles. He stayed up with John when he suffered from insomnia, playing soft melodies on the violin or reading case files.  When he woke up from nightmares or fell into dark moods, Sherlock held him close and whispered calming words in his ear, "It's okay, love. I'm here, you're not alone."

They continued on, as much as they could, as much as their grief would allow them. Unspoken words sat between them at night- in the space between their faces while they stared at each other, just to be sure the other was still alive- hanging in their shared breath. 

_We'll be okay, won't we? - I don't know anymore. - I'd like to hope so._

_Life is going on outside of these walls, and I want to burn it to the ground._

_Do you remember what it's like to feel alive? - No. - Me neither._

_Do you remember what it's like to sleep through the night? - No, I haven't in years. - Right, you never sleep anyway._

_I'm afraid I'll forget her smile._

_I never heard her speak._

They had entire conversations without saying a word. They never really needed to say it to begin with- Sherlock could deduce almost anything John was thinking about with just a look. He knew the man's pinched eyebrows and furious grins like the back of his hand.

They had settled into a monotonous, but manageable, routine. Some people may have even said that John was starting to move on, though Sherlock knew better than to take the extrapolation of data that far. If he was honest, he wasn't sure if either of them were ready when Mycroft phoned Greg in the middle of dinner on an otherwise uneventful Thursday evening.

"Mycroft?"

"Gregory. Do you recall a possible homicide I spoke with you about when you were staying with Sherlock?" The discomfort was noticeable in Mycroft's voice, which should have tipped Greg off from the beginning.

"Um, vaguely. You said you weren't sure if it even was a-"

"Yes, yes. I'm aware. We know now. It was, in fact, a triple homicide."

"How does something go from being 'maybe a homicide' to 'definitely a  _triple_ homicide?'"

"Irrelevant. I need you to-" 

Sherlock's phone chimed. He fished the mobile out of his own pocket for once, and opened the message. All of the blood drained from his face.

"Hold on, Sherlock's got a text and he seems-"

"NO! Don't open-"

"What? He already has. Myc, does this have something to do-"

_"MYCROFT, TELL ME YOU DID NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS. TELL ME NOW."_ Sherlock had ripped Greg's mobile from his hands and his voice thundered through the receiver on Mycroft's end.

"We didn't know until about twenty minutes ago, brother mine. Please do calm yourself."

_"THEN WHY WERE YOU SPEAKING TO LESTRADE ABOUT IT WHEN HE WAS STAYING HERE?"_ Sherlock  continued, still shouting. John was taking in the scene with wide eyes. He had witnessed Sherlock's biting anger on many occasions, but he had never had a front row seat to this type of forceful rage.

The door of the flat opened and Mycroft strode inside, Anthea at his heels, texting as always.

"Sit down, brother mine. Holster your firearm, Gregory. Someone be mother, pour me a cup of tea, and let me explain the situation before you make to strangle me, shoot me, or otherwise maim my transport."  _It's going to be a long night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment comment comment for me, please!


	19. If You Don't Behave Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft explains the deep shit he's gotten himself in to.

"You said it was a  _hoax_ , Mycroft. I hoax that worked conveniently in my favor. _'Oh, no need to worry, Sherlock, it appears that one of my disgruntled former employees simply wanted to make a bit of a splash on his way out. Moriarty is, in fact, dead. But we've proven your usefulness to my colleagues, so you'll be allowed to stay in England for now.'_ You  _lied_ to us. How, in the name of God, could you  _lie_ about something like THIS?" Sherlock struggled to keep his voice down, finally losing the battle and shouting on the last word. His speech was laced with venom and betrayal. His hands shook with the effort to keep them balled at his sides instead of using them to shove his brother against a wall, or possibly down the stairs.

"Sit down, Sherlock. You do not understand the situation. I will explain. All in due time." Mycroft's shirt was wrinkled, his hair unwashed, and his tie slightly looser than normal. He looked as if he hadn't been home to change or wash in at least two days.

"I will  _not_ sit down, Mycroft. You  _do not_ tell me what to do. I will stand here and you will explain yourself and you will _beg_ for forgiveness and I  _might consider_ not physically harming you to the point that we require John's medical expertise." Sherlock was so enraged, there was a bit of color to his normally pale cheeks. His breathing came in staccato gusts, and John was genuinely beginning to fear for Mycroft's safety.

"So, anybody gonna tell Greg and I what the hell is going on?" John asked, feigning relaxed ease and hoping that the Holmes brothers would clue them in sooner rather than later.

Mycroft glanced at the other two men in the room briefly, but returned his eyes to Sherlock before he answered John. "My brother has received a rather disconcerting message from an unknown number, in the fashion of the late Moriarty. I assure you, he is, in fact, dead. This is simply something meant to 'rattle the cage' as it were."

"He's dead?! HE'S DEAD?! You're going to sit there and tell me he is dead, when he clearly just sent me this?!" Sherlock alternated between shouting and speaking in a deadly whisper, brandishing his mobile around haphazardly. 

"Um, guys? Greg and I still have no clue what he sent anyone." John interjected, getting cross with being ignored. Sherlock threw his mobile forcefully at John's face, who caught it with a glare to the owner. Opening the message, he was met with a picture of himself, Mary, and Elizabeth getting into the car on the morning of the accident. The photo was taken from a camera phone somewhere in the bushes across the street from John and Mary's home. The text attached to the picture read, "Oh, Angel, I'm surprised you haven't come looking for me yet. Has Myc not told you of our agreement? Silly man, trying to protect himself. Letting me use your heart against him. Is it burning yet, Locky?"

John unceremoniously shoved Sherlock's mobile in Greg's general direction so the DI could have a look. He clamored to his feet, not quite comprehending situation as quickly as Sherlock had, but matching the detective's anger step for step. In a low, controlled, darkly threatening voice, he spoke to Mycroft.

"You will explain this. Right now. And not your usual cocky bullshitting way. You will sit there, and you will answer our questions, and when we are finished, you will tell us if there is anything we missed. And you will wipe that shit-eating grin off of your face before my fist wipes if off for you." John took a steadying breath, and bore his eyes into Mycroft until the man had to glance away, sideways, with his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Mycroft nodded, tersely accepting John's demands. Sherlock spoke first.

"If it is not Moriarty, who is it? How does he know what Moriarty said to me at the pool, on the roof? How does he know me?"

"Lord Moran, the one trusted to blow up the Parliament building, if you recall. Moriarty's second in command. Moran is the John to Moriarty's Sherlock, if you will. He knows you through Moriarty. He was uninterested in Moriarty's obsession with you until Moriarty's suicide, but was placated when you were 'dead' and your reputation smeared through the mud. You rather angered him when you dismantled his bomb."

"...Parliament? It was him running the terrorist group! Moriarty's terrorist group? No, I neutralized them, I'm certain of it, I got them all-"

"We were unaware of this branch of Moriarty's network until the attempted attack on Parliament. Well... we knew this particular terrorist group _existed_. We just did not know it was under Moriarty's thumb, however, and was passed on to Moran's command in the event of his death. Moran decided to use the group to benefit his own political agenda, rather than to continue Moriarty's pursuit of you. When you diffused the bomb and ruined his plans, he set out to avenge his Moriarty by burning your heart out, as he so eloquently put it years ago."

"Moran was in love with Moriarty, wasn't he? I've broken the man's twisted, psychotic heart by letting the man he pined after shoot himself in the head in an effort to kill the people I love?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

Sherlock lowered himself into his chair, mind buzzing with the implications of this new information. _Moriarty and Moran. Network not neutralized. All of that, for nothing. Years given up, with no result. Because of an oversight! A damned sorry oversight._ Meanwhile, John started his round of interrogation.

"What do you have to do with this, then, hm?"

"I am sorry to admit that I was blackmailed. I thought I had been a step ahead of his game-"

"HAH! A lot good that's done you in the past!" John was grinning. It was never good when angry John Watson grinned.

"Let me continue, please. Moran is a master of manipulation, above Magnussen even. I began to suspect him of terroristic involvement, so he set up surveillance on all of us. I had no idea of his relationship with Moriarty at the time, which only fueled his fire. He had people watching all of us- myself, Anthea, Sherlock, you and your wife and child. Any time I made a move to alert Sherlock, even my attempts at alerting him with a code, he sent me a photograph of one of you. Or a video. I should have known then- it was a play right out of Moriarty's book. My hands were tied."

"What changed? They don't look very tied to me."

"I'm getting to it. The progress I was making on uncovering his involvement with the terrorist cell was exceedingly slow-going, as I had to be careful to avoid raising his suspicion. I believe, at least for some time, he was under the impression that I had dropped the investigation. I thought I would finish in time to have him apprehended, before any of you met any real danger-"

"REAL danger, Mycroft? YOU THINK THAT'S NOT REAL DANGER?" John shouted, and abruptly began laughing. "Oh, this is rich. Please, continue to tell us how being under surveillance, by people who are probably trained snipers, 24/7, without our knowledge, is not real danger."

"John. That is not what I meant. Let me finish. I am growing weary of being interrupted so frequently."

"Fine. Go on then, finish."

Mycroft breathed deeply and swallowed the rest of his tea before continuing. Admitting he had failed was loathsome. "During the investigation, I discovered evidence of Moran's involvement with Moriarty. It explained his involvement with the terrorist cell as well as why you were being targeted, rather than just Sherlock. We both knew that your death would devastate Sherlock, and he, regrettably, knew I cared and did not want Sherlock hurt so deeply. He broke through my firewalls and was alerted to the fact that I knew who he was, how he became involved with the terrorists, and that I knew why he wanted to harm you and John. I needed your help. I needed to tell you that the network had not been entirely dismantled, but I had no way to get to you. Then, Moran approached me. To make a deal.  


"His... deal, as he called it, was that I ignore him and he would allow John and his family to live. I had to allow him to monitor me, give him access to everything, let him destroy the evidence I had found during the investigation, in order to ensure the safety of the both of you. I agreed, and I did not think he had seen through my lie. He did destroy all of the evidence, and he did continue to monitor me. I thought I had found a loophole in his surveillance, and tried to contact Sherlock, the night before the car accident. He re-routed the call, and answered himself. There were no other moves I could make, nothing else I could offer him. He had me cornered, and told me to beg. I did," Mycroft looked down, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes.  _Weak. How could I have been so weak?_ _  
_

"I begged him to spare your lives. I promised I would give up, turn a blind eye. Again, he convinced me you would be safe, as long as I kept up my end of the bargain. I agreed to siphon government funds to his accounts. I agreed to commit treason. He claimed that he forgave me, and that none of you would come to any harm.

"I watched the accident happen on CCTV from my office. I was watching all of you that day, worried that he would make a move I wasn't expecting. It looked like an accident. I was sure, it was a coincidence. I was _so sure_. But I had to look in to it anyway. That's what I was talking about with Gregory, but he didn't know at the time. I was looking into the possibility that Moran was behind the accident. I couldn't let it go."

"That's why you planned the funeral then, when you couldn't be arsed to come to the wedding? You felt guilty." John was still smiling, as if the horrors of reality were one big joke.

"I... yes. Moving on. Yesterday, I found the connection. The man who was driving the other vehicle, was indeed high as a kite when the accident took place. However, he was high on the specific type of methamphetamine that Moran's terrorist cell uses in many of its financial dealings. He would have died from the overdose, had he not struck John's vehicle at the precise moment he had been instructed. It was meant to get no one's attention but my own. It was meant to look like an accident to everyone but me. For me, it was supposed to be a warning. _This is what will happen to Sherlock if you don't behave yourself._ The fact that you lived, John, was a surprise to him. You weren't meant to, I'm sure.

"He knows that I know that the _accident_ was not an accident. He knows I have decided to tell you. Hence, his text to you, Sherlock. He is goading you into attacking. When I say this, I mean it in the most serious of ways: we are all in very serious danger." As Mycroft finished, his posture drooped and he let himself fall against the back of the chair he had taken. The room was deathly silent, until Sherlock spoke in a frighteningly calm voice.

"I have an idea. Six, to be exact. I presume you have a car ready?"

"Of course. It isn't safe thou-"

"No matter. Get three more. Do exactly as I say. John, pack some clothes. We mighn't be back here for several days. Hurry, we haven't much time." John stared at him, blankly, shocked into silence. "You heard me. GO!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I left any gaping holes? Are there more questions about the "accident situation"? Let me know what you think! I love your comments, always.


	20. Into the Belly of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock manages to get the four of them out of the flat, unscathed. Mycroft is distraught. John is pissed, but sympathetic to Mycroft's plight. Greg is, as usual, steadfastly helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The only time they appear human is when you have a knife at their throats.” 
> 
> -Jack Henry Abbott, "In the Belly of the Beast: Letters From Prison"

Sherlock gave his brother a long deducing stare, narrowing his eyes. He was mindful of Greg's presence, gaping at them from across the room, still processing the information they'd all been presented with. He leaned down to his brother's ear, and spoke to him at a level that could barely be considered a whisper.

"I know he did more than blackmail you to get what he wanted. I figured it out ten minutes ago. If you do not wish for anyone to know, I will respect that, unless it becomes necessary to disclose the information for the sake of the case. If he makes it to the authorities alive after I'm done with him, I intend to inform them of the full extent of his crimes, unless you'd rather not. We can discuss particularities of that later. I cannot guarantee that you will come to no more harm, as we are walking straight into the belly of the beast when we leave this flat, but I will do my best to keep him away from you," Sherlock spoke in a breathless rush. 

Mycroft turned his head to look at his brother, somewhat surprised that he had figured out the full extent of the ordeal he had been through. For a split second, Sherlock was allowed to see the unmasked fear and trepidation written on Mycroft's features. Noting this, Sherlock placed his hand over Mycroft's white knuckles on the arm of the chair for a brief moment, before ghosting it away as quickly as he had placed it there. Mycroft nodded curtly, a signal to Sherlock that he was ready to proceed with whatever the plan was.

"Twenty minutes. I need to contact my Homeless Network. Is the flat bugged?"

"Audio. No video."

"Ugh! Of course," Sherlock rummaged through the desk until he found a map of London and the surrounding area. He grabbed a permanent marker and placed two X's near Baker street, and two more near the streets where most of his reliable Homeless Network lived. At the top of the map, he wrote "Car Locations" and then drew an arrow pointing south of London. Under the arrow, he wrote "Safe House? Not your's, borrow someone's." He roughly handed the map to Mycroft.

"Can you do this, in twenty minutes?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head to indicate that Mycroft should say 'no.'

"I can do it in thirty," Mycroft said, clear enough for the hidden microphones in the room to pick up. Sherlock nodded,  _yes, that was the right thing to say,_ and held up his ten fingers, to which Mycroft nodded back.

Greg had done them the favor of staying quiet, knowing that asking questions and interjecting would slow the pair down. _Best to just let the Holmes brothers figure this lot out._  But to say he was alarmed was an understatement. He had  _never_ seen Mycroft in such a state.  _So we are being pursued by a terrorist organization that nearly got away with bombing Parliament, run by a man who not only blackmailed Mycroft but also had Mary and the baby killed, and who tried to kill John. Jesus Christ. This is the clusterfuck of the century._

"Gregory, I apologize for getting you involved with this. You'll have to come with us. We'll get things arranged at the Yard somehow. I need your mobile. It's encrypted, yes? It may not be compromised for a few more minutes. Hopefully long enough for me to take care of these arrangements." Mycroft, expressionless, outstretched his hand to Greg. He handed he phone over without question. _  
_

"Of course I'm coming with you, Myc. We'll get this sorted. Or, at least, you and Sherlock will get this sorted while John and I keep you from getting shot and killed." Mycroft nodded. _This is precisely why he is the only one I tolerate shortening my name,_ he thought, while he sent a series of texts to get the cars and safe house prepared.

Sherlock stalked back in to the room, his scarf already on and collar tipped up, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. John was at his heels with his medical bag and a small backpack of what was probably clothes and toiletries for himself and Sherlock. Sherlock motioned for Greg and Mycroft to join them at the desk, where he placed the pad down and wrote, "The real plan is on paper. I am speaking to lead them in the wrong direction. Room is bugged." He started talking, something about 'decoy car' and 'traveling east and then north for a while,' while he wrote. 

The plan he wrote down read, "We are going to a safe house. When we exit the flat, there will be two cars. Mycroft and Lestrade will take one; John and I will take the other. We will be followed. We will travel east, until we meet with four homeless, who will be waiting in a poorly lit alley near two other cars of Mycroft's. We will pretend to switch cars, with the help of my homeless network. Our two cars will pull up between the cars in the alley, and the homeless operatives will enter the car on the furthest left side, keeping their heads down. The lighting of the alley will make it difficult to make out more than the shapes of heads inside the vehicles. Our tail will be trained to know that we are trying to throw them off, by introducing extra vehicles and heads. They will assume that we will ask our corroborators to sit up in the vehicle they are assigned, and that we will move to another car, keeping our heads down, to throw them off of our tail. In reality, Mycroft and Greg will move to the car that John and I occupy, the four of us will sit up normally after the homeless operatives are in place, one or two in each car. They will believe we are the homeless operatives, and we will travel south. Two homeless cars will travel east, and one will break off to go north after a while. That is the one they will follow. Our car, as well as the third homeless car, will not be tailed."

John snatched a pen off the desk and quickly added a question to the paper. "We're staying in a compromised vehicle?"

"Compromised by license plate number- not bugged or GPS capable. We will switch the license plate out when we are a safe distance away. Moran knows which plates Mycroft has access to, so we will be borrowing someone else's."

"Stealing someone else's." Greg added, taking the pen from John.

"Shut up, Lestrade."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock had somehow managed to make his verbal rant about the fake plan long enough to last the length of their written conversation. He was coming to a close now, "...and it should take about six hours to make it to Jedburgh." He folded the paper silently, crossed to the fireplace, and dropped it to the bricks with a lit match.

Mycroft glanced at his watch.  _Eight minutes._ He pointed at it, making eye contact with Sherlock, who mouthed "now" to the three men, and left the flat with a customary flourish of his coat.

John and Greg drew their weapons, following Sherlock with Mycroft between them. They made it to the cars outside the flat uneventfully, and sure enough, were tailed by an unmarked black sedan about a block behind them. In Sherlock's car, John let his head drop back to the headrest with a dull  _thump_ as he let out a long, slow breath, his lips pursed and his cheeks puffed out. Sherlock side-eyed him. 

"Alright, John?"

"Yeah. It's just- there's more to this than Mycroft is telling us, isn't there?"

"Yes. Nothing especially pertinent to the case, though."

"You're upset, though. Something's happened to him, hasn't it?"

"We're not discussing this right now."

"Right. Sorry. How long till we meet up with the homeless?"

"Shut up, John. Thinking."

John rolled his eyes again, but he did shut up.

In Mycroft's car, things were a bit less calm. He had been awake for the majority of the past 72 hours, gradually growing more and more distressed. They'd been traveling for all of thirty seconds before he could no longer maintain his composure. 

"FUCK!" He exclaimed, slamming his fist down hard into the plastic console between Greg and himself. He leaned forward, trying to take calming breaths, his hands pressed together and fingertips prodding the stretch of forehead between his eyebrows.  _This can not be happening. Fleeing the city, pursued by terrorists, having committed treason. Oh, God. How have I come to this? I am a criminal._

He was startled by Greg's hand pressing lightly on his shoulder. "Myc, you need to breathe. Get your head back in the game, at least until we make it to the safe house. We won't stand a chance otherwise." Mycroft nodded, struggling his way though a few deep breaths. "There you go. Good. Sit up now, we want whoever's tailing us to be able to see both of us. How long until we reach the alley?"

Mycroft glanced out the windows and then down at his watch before responding. "About thirty seconds. Be ready. Moran wants us alive, so I doubt there will be gunfire, but stay as close to the vehicles as possible, just in case. They're armored."

Thirty seconds later, on the dot, Sherlock's and Mycroft's cars pulled into the gap between the two other waiting vehicles. The men ducked, watching as the group of homeless people climbed into the sedan on the left side of the row. The backseat doors of all four cars opened at once, allowing Mycroft and Greg to crouch into the car occupied by Sherlock and John. The homeless operatives distributed themselves among the other three cars at the same time, serving to both shield the men and distract the tail that had just pulled around the corner. Kneeling on the floor, Sherlock held out his five fingers, and then began to use them to count down.  _Five... four... three... two..._ he looked around, making sure the doors were closing and the homeless operatives were in place...  _ONE._

The men sat up at the same moment that all four cars sped out of the alley, just as the men in the tail car were getting out of their vehicles. Sherlock stared back, watching the road behind them as they sped out of the city. The four men waited with baited breath to see if Sherlock's plan had worked. There was no one following them.

"Okay," he breathed. "We've lost them for now. I hope you know, Mycroft, you're not getting those cars back. Hope the drivers can take care of themselves."

"My drivers will be fine. Small price to pay." He glanced at the driver's seat, pleased to see that Anthea was at the wheel as he had expected.

"Anthea? Safe house C18 has been cleared for our use. In 23 miles, pull over for us to switch license plates."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft grabbed his mobile from his pocket, removed the battery, smashed the screen, and threw it out the window. He looked at his companions and said, "You too. They'll track us when they realize they're following the wrong car." As they tossed their mobiles out the window, broken and dead in the grass on the side of the road, Sherlock reached into the deep pockets of his coat and pulled out four burner phones. Greg and John looked at him, incredulous. 

"What? I give them out to the homeless network. I always have a couple on me. How else do you think I contact them? Really, do keep up. How long, Mycroft?"

"About two and a half hours."

"Mm. Right. Mind Palace. John, alert me when we arrive."

Sherlock settled into the seat, his eyes closed and chin perched on steepled fingers. He and John were facing Mycroft and Greg in the spacious back of the sedan. Mycroft rested his head against the window, the energy of the past few days rushing out of him all at once. John had been intent on shouting at him as soon as the chance arose, but the desire had quickly been replaced with worry for the man as the night progressed. As much as he thought about it, he couldn't figure out any other course of action that Mycroft could have taken. His hands, truly, had been tied. 

Mycroft spent a few minutes focusing on keeping his breathing even and slow, but found himself gradually dropping off to sleep.  _I am so tired. But we aren't there yet. I have to stay alert. We're in danger. We're all in danger because I have been a colossal idiot._ After two rounds of nearly falling asleep, jerking his head back up abruptly, and smacking the side of his head on the window, he felt Greg's hand back on his shoulder.

"Myc, we won't be there for two hours yet. Let yourself get some rest. Please. You're of no use to anyone, this exhausted. Here, there was a pillow under the seat. Rest." Greg's voice was quiet, but still firm.  _He's right_ , Mycroft admitted to himself as he took the pillow and propped it behind his head. 

"...thank you, Gregory," Mycroft managed to say as his heavy eyelids drooped shut again.

"Since when does he let anyone call him Myc?" John asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Um, didn't know it was new? I've called him Myc for years."

"Hm. Never heard anyone get away with shortening his name. He doesn't even let his mother do it."

"Dunno, then. You doing alright? You're looking a little peaky."

"Fine. Just a little sore. Been up since five for a shift at the clinic, and it's..." he looked down at his new mobile for the time, "Christ, it's after eleven. No wonder I'm so sore. I'm supposed to take my pain meds at eight." He chuckled at that,  _the only thing that gets me to forget my pain medication is a national security threat._ _Never thought I'd get to this point so early in life._ He rooted through his hastily packed bag to locate his pills and bottle of water, and swallowed them quickly.

They stopped a few minutes later, and Greg got out of the car to switch the license plates on their getaway car with those from a random black sedan that was parked in someone's driveway. When he returned, he noticed John had drifted to sleep as well, his head lolling on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock, of course, was still in his Mind Palace, but had surfaced just enough to wrap his arm around John's shoulders.

_Guess I'm the one staying alert and keeping watch, then. Conveniently, that's something I do well._

"Got any coffee in here, Anthea?"

"There's a cup up here from a few hours ago. Mr. Holmes never drank it. Black, no sugar. But it's stone cold."

"Good enough for me," he said. Anthea passed the drink back to him, and he settled in for what he hoped would be a very boring ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Moran has hurt Mycroft, and Sherlock is ferociously angry about it. What will all of this mean for Mycroft? How is John's body going to cope with fighting an underground terrorist cell? What is Sherlock's next move? What's Moran's next move?
> 
> This may potentially get very dark, briefly, before it gets lighter again. I haven't quite decided how far I'm going to take certain aspects of the situation. What do you think? What would you want to read?
> 
> Let me know! I love every single one of your comments! <3


	21. The Mechanism of My Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at the safe house, Mycroft tells John a bit of how Moran manipulated him, and Greg becomes a "hostage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a tad bit short. There is more coming!

They arrived at the safe house around two in the morning, everyone but Sherlock practically dead on their feet. Anthea made quick work of procuring the hidden key, typing in a code on the lock on a second door, and getting the men and herself inside. Sherlock strode quickly into the room, untying his scarf and throwing off his coat while he paced in the living room. 

The safe house was equipped with some of the most advanced covert security equipment available, and privately owned by one of Mycroft's lesser known associates. The house did not exist, according to the government. They were about as far away from civilization as you could get if you still wanted to communicate by internet or mobile. There were several computers, a television, multiple encrypted phones, and satellite monitoring systems available from the study. The sheer amount of technology in the house reminded John of James Bond.  _You could spy on anyone from here._ _Is this even legal? No, probably best not to ask._

Unfortunately, that was where the pros of their accommodations ended and the cons began. The house was small, with one bedroom and one bath. The kitchen could only hold three people comfortably, and the living room consisted of a couch and one recliner. And for all the technology the owner invested in, you'd think they could have found a way to keep the place from smelling like mothballs.

"Well, mates, I'm intent on sleeping ASAP, considering Anthea and I were the only ones who managed to stay awake the whole way here," Greg started, wanting to get the sleeping arrangements out of the way so he could get some rest.

"I was awake! I was in my Mind Palace. That's awake. I don't sleep on cases."

"You don't count, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed, pretending to be annoyed, and continued to pace. 

"Anyway... I guess, Anthea, you're the only woman here so you get the bedroom. John, we don't need you in extra pain, so you get the couch. Myc, you want the floor or recliner?"

"The floor is fine, Gregory. Take the recliner." 

"Ta," he said, before heavily dropping into the chair and stretching out. He was asleep before Anthea came back into the room, arms laden with blankets and pillows. Mycroft took a blanket from her and threw it over Greg's relaxed form, stubbornly ignoring the raised eyebrow from Sherlock. Anthea handed John a blanket and pillow, and left the rest on the floor for Mycroft to use as padding against the hardwood floor, before she left to make use of the twin sized bed that was calling her name. 

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and John, before hurriedly mumbling "I'll wake you if there are any developments. I'll be in the study." He made brief eye contact with John, as if to say  _you'll be alright, won't you?_ John gave him a small nod and an almost-smile.  _Of course I'll be alright. We're back. The game is on._

John settled himself into the soft cushions of the sofa, while Mycroft stripped off his tie and waistcoat. The room was quiet, finally, and John could feel himself beginning to drift off again when Mycroft's voice brought him back to reality.

"John."

"What, Mycroft? Go to sleep."

"No, I just- I wanted you to know. I'm so sorry, John. For all of this. For everything. Sherlock is my brother, and he loves you, and that makes you family, and I need you to know. I never wanted to put you in danger."  _Why am I even saying this? Stupid. Being weak, again, Mycroft. Making a habit of it, apparently._

"Christ, Mycroft. It's-" John cut himself off and propped himself up on his elbow to look at Mycroft, who was staring resolutely at the ceiling. "I know. I know you're sorry. And we'll get this sorted. But, Jesus, Mycroft, this isn't like you. Coming to Sherlock for help, apologizing for getting people killed, sleeping in an escape car? What the hell did they do to you?" The question slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.  _Idiot. Sleep deprivation does nothing but make me an idiot._

Mycroft's nostrils flared slightly at the question, but he made no other movement to indicate he had been offended. 

"He injured me. Not nearly the horrific torture that Sherlock experienced at the hands of the Serbians, but he injured me in order to force me to concede to their terms, and to provide the information they would need to gain my security clearances and access digital information. I'd rather not discuss it, honestly. It doesn't matter. The damage has been done, John. The mechanism of my failure is irrelevant; what's relevant is that I've failed, and spectacularly so."

"Mycroft," John whispered, his voice taking a deliberately softer tone. "We'll get it sorted. You haven't failed quite as spectacularly as you think, if you ask me. We're safe for the night. We'll need you and that brain of your's when we wake up, I'm sure. So rest it, and stop beating yourself up about everything. You have more important things to focus on right now. Like keeping us from all getting killed. Okay?"

"Yes, you're right."

"Goodnight, Mycroft."

"Goodnight."

\---

Mycroft awoke precisely 6.5 hours after falling asleep, while Greg and John were both still snoring in their respective corners of the living room. He laboriously forced his body into a standing position, flexing and stretching his muscles that had grown sore from his night spent on a makeshift blanket-mattress. He found Sherlock sitting cross-legged in the middle of the study, his eyes closed and body unmoving. Despite this, he noted Mycroft's entrance by cracking one eyelid open and drawing himself out of his Mind Palace.

"Yes, brother?"

"What is the plan, Sherlock? You've been sitting in here all night, haven't you?" 

"Wait."  _We can't have much of a plan, brother mine, since you have effectively planned us all into a box._ _  
_

"Wait?! Wait for what, exactly, Sherlock?" _What the hell has he been doing all night?_

"His next move. We have escaped the lion's den, but do not make the mistake of thinking we have the upper hand. We need to see what his next move is before planning ours."

"How do we know when he makes a move?"

"I have a feeling he will be making his next move very public. He knows we have Greg, now, and surely the Yard is in an uproar over the disappearance of a DI. He will try to use Greg to his advantage- he can't help but play with his new toy." Sherlock's words were dripping in contempt for Moran. It was little comfort that Sherlock seemed confident in his prediction of Moran's next step, considering that there was no plan to follow it.

"SHIT!" The shout from the living room was clear, although the brothers were unsure of which man it had come from. Upon entering the room, Sherlock and Mycroft were greeted by a news anchor on the television, a pacing Greg, and a worried-looking John.

"...Scotland Yard Detective Inspector, Gregory Lestrade, is believed to have been taken hostage by a rogue government agent suspected of terroristic involvement. The name of the government official has been withheld as the investigation is ongoing, but we have been reliably informed..." the anchor's voice carried through the room.

"Moran is efficient, I'll give him that," Sherlock said over the news broadcast.

"At least I won't have to worry about requesting time off, eh?"

"Okay, he's made his move, Sherlock. What's the plan?"

"Patience, brother. Patience. He'll issue a statement later, claiming it's from you. I bet he's going to blame the Parliament bombing on you, too. Oh, don't make that face. You were under duress. It's fine."

"It isn't fine, Sherlock. This is my career. My entire life. How do you propose you fix this, if he blames it all on me?" Mycroft's tone was simultaneously anxious and depressed.

"We'll prove you were under duress, somehow. There's evidence of it, somewhere. We'll find it, when we take him down." Sherlock sounded less sure of this than Mycroft was comfortable with.

Greg, picking up on Mycroft's unease, gave him something more solid to latch on to. "When, not if, Mycroft. We'll take him down. It's just how he goes down that's a question right now, okay?"

"Right," Mycroft answered. "When, not if."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm a comment whore. Tell me everything you think about my story. Talk to me. I love you all, dear readers!


	22. A Sweet Taste to This Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief foray into the twisted and broken mind of Sebastian Moran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water." -Sherlock Holmes, recounting Moriarty's death in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Empty House".

Sebastian Moran reclined in a hand-made leather wingback chair that was worth more than the home his parents raised him in. His feet rested on a matching leather footstool, and his head tilted to the side languidly as he sipped his scotch.  _The downfall of Mycroft Holmes begins in T minus 10 minutes on live television. What a splendid turn of events. Taking down Sherlock may have been my main goal, but there is a sweet taste to this collateral damage. Pompous bastard had it coming, really. Maybe he'll give up hope and kill himself... Maybe I'll even get to watch. Goody, goody! Put on a show for me, Mycroft dear. Fall apart so when Sherlock finally sees John ripped from his arms, he'll have nowhere to turn but the needle._

_Oh, I do love a tight rope performance without a safety net._

_You'll learn not to cross Lord Sebastian Moran. You'll all learn. You'll know exactly what it's like to kneel in a puddle of your lover's blood and brains. I'll be untouchable to you, while you wonder what went wrong, why you couldn't stop me. You'll watch the light leave those sweet, blue eyes, Sherlock._

He smiled, playing out the scenario in his head. So far, everything was going according to plan. Mycroft's "confession" letter would be read on the evening news tonight. In it was a code that Sherlock would recognize, giving them the location where he would meet them- an abandoned warehouse not far from London. They had successfully lost his tail, but he was sure they were staying at a safe house somewhere. Honestly, he didn't care where they were located.  _They'll come to me, my sweet puppets._

_It isn't without its dangers though, inviting the Holmes brothers, a DI, and an army doctor into my open arms. But great rewards require great risk._

He used his hand not holding the scotch to send a text to the new number of one of his many associates. 

**We're almost ready, Poppet. Be sure they're watching. xoxo**

**I'll call you Sebby if you call me Poppet. Of course they're watching. S figured it out this morning.**

**Call me what you will, Poppet. Make sure they get here on time. Wouldn't want to delay the festivities.**

**Never, Sebby. See you soon, love.**

He finished his scotch as the newscast began.  _  
_

_See you soon, indeed, my Poppet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you for your comments, beautiful readers of mine.
> 
> For those of you following my health saga, I got more bad news today. My renal ultrasound showed tumors on one of my kidneys as well as my liver. The test was to see if I had an adrenal tumor, but they couldn't visualize my adrenal glands, so they still have no idea if I have an adrenal tumor. 
> 
> I'll be having a MRI and/or a CT early next week to get more information about the tumors, see if they are cancerous, and decide where to go from there.
> 
> God, it's nice to know we're getting somewhere with a diagnosis for me, but an unexpected liver tumor is fucking scary. I'll update on the next chapter, if I know more by then.


	23. Swift, and Silent, and Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea's role in the game is revealed. Plans are made. Kissing happens.

Anthea pocketed her mobile and deleted her text messages, wondering if Sherlock or Mycroft had realized what she was up to yet.  _Surely, one of them would have called me out already._ _They can't think I'm a threat, not yet. It isn't time._ She took a steadying breath.  _I am dancing with the devil for you, My. Please forgive me._ Upon returning to the living room, none of the men paid her any mind, already riveted to the newscast.

"A public statement from the office of Mycroft Holmes, MI6, in regards to the alleged kidnapping of Gregory Lestrade and recent terrorist attack attempts, has been published online. We have been informed by a representative of the MI6 that their website editing software is inaccessible to anyone outside of the organization, and that Holmes has not reported to work since the disappearance of Gregory Lestrade. In light of this public statement, his recent absence, and undisclosed evidence, Mycroft Holmes is the prime suspect in Lestrade's alleged kidnapping and is believed to have orchestrated several terrorist attack attempts in the UK. 

"Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft's younger brother, is thought to be in his company, as is John Watson, Sherlock's assistant," John snorted at the word assistant. "It has yet to be determined if Sherlock and Watson are corroborators or hostages."

Meanwhile, Greg brought up the "statement" on a laptop Sherlock had brought out from the study hours earlier. The men poured over it, Sherlock slowly working out the code that Moriarty left for them.

_I knew he'd pick up on that. You're too obvious for your own good, Sebby. The MI6 might break down your door before we do. Getting sloppy. God, My is never going to trust me after this, even if I pull it off. But it's their best chance. His best chance. Jesus Christ, Anthea, get a grip. It's not the time to be soft. It is time to be swift, and silent, and deadly. Just like My taught you._

She glanced at Mycroft, who was sitting next to Greg on the sofa, head in his hands and elbows on his knees.  _I'm going to fix this, My. I'm going to fix it. He trusts me now, and when we get inside, I am going to rip his fucking throat out with my teeth if I have to._ _I just wish I didn't have to hurt you first._

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's and Mycroft's heads both shot up at the sound of Anthea's voice. She met and held Mycroft's gaze before switching to make eye contact with Sherlock. "I assume you are working out some location that Moran is leading us to, with that code? Shall I gather our belongings?"

"Yes. Yes, go. Busy," Sherlock responded, far too preoccupied with the case to be bothered by pleasantries like please and thank you.

She had their bags packed in short order and was folding their linens when Sherlock called her back into the living room to discuss the plan he developed. The men were gathered around the coffee table, as if they were studying tactical plans for a war.  _Into battle_.

"He's leading us into a trap, that much is obvious. For now, we've got to play into his hand. It's our only option, unless we want to seek asylum in another country. We're going to travel to the warehouse indicated in the skip code, where I suspect he will meet us. He's taking a huge risk, being present himself, but he wants to see us. He wants to play with us, break us, and then dispose of us. The evidence we need to clear Mycroft's name will be in another location, if not on his person. Once in the warehouse, we need to somehow gain the upper hand and take Moran hostage. He won't need to tell us where the evidence is; I'll be able to figure it out whether he answers my questions or not. We just have to  _get him._ " Sherlock looked up, seeing four sets of incredibly dubious eyes staring back at him. 

"That is the most half-arsed, idiotic plan I have ever heard of in my life," Greg said, voicing general opinion of the entire group. "Not only are we blindly entering his territory, but we have  _no idea_ what we're up against, how many people will be there, the layout of the building, anything. We have  _no_ _intel_ , Sherlock. We cant just waltz in there and expect to be able to overpower him and however many goons he has working for him. What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we have  _no other choice_ , Lestrade. If we wait longer, he will fabricate further evidence to cement Mycroft's guilt, destroy the evidence against himself, and we will all be at his mercy. When he gets bored, he will kill us. If we try to fight back, he will have us thrown in prison for corroborating with a terrorist, no offense Mycroft, or he will kill us. Even with Mycroft in prison, or executed, we are loose ends for him. If Moran is half as fastidious as Moriarty, he always makes sure he ties up his loose ends. We are as good as dead, unless we somehow take hold of the situation, get the documentation to prove Mycroft's innocence, and make it to the authorities  _with the evidence_ before Moran or his henchmen kill us. Do you have a better plan? If not, I'd suggest you shut up. Your breath reeks of idiocy."

" _Sherlock!_ " John's voice cut in, sharp and reprimanding for insulting Greg after all he had done for them recently.

Greg chuckled good-naturedly and rolled his eyes. "I don't have a better plan. You know I'd follow you straight into a fire if you told me it was the best option in a situation like this. Just thought the flaws should be reinforced. This is probably going to get ugly."

"To Sherlock's benefit, his plan does involve two MI6, a DI with twenty plus years of experience, an army doctor, and the only consulting detective in the world. We make a nice team, I think. Wide skill set and knowledge base. We might be up for this," Anthea interjected, willing the men to believe she had only as much information on Moran's lair as they did. 

"Are we agreed, then? We're going?" Sherlock asked, eager to get moving, adrenaline sparking behind his eyes.

"God, how I hate field work," Mycroft bemoaned, but then added, "Yes, of course we're going. Whatever else would we do, sit here and wait for him to ruin me and kill you all?"

"I'm in, but I'm with Greg on this. This is one of the most shit plans you've ever had, Sherlock, and that includes jumping off St. Bart's bloody roof. If you die again, I'm going to fucking kill you," John's eyes were light with the empty threat, but the expression on his face was deadly serious.  _I'm not fucking around, Sherlock. Don't die on me._

"Okay, to the car! Go! Now! No wasting time!" Sherlock clapped his hands and shooed Greg, Mycroft, and Anthea out the door with their bags, but gripped John's wrist and closed the door, separating them from the rest of the group. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and leaned down to look directly into his eyes. He spoke quickly and breathlessly, in an attempt to speed everything along.

"You need me to say this, so shut up and let me do it quickly. We don't have much time. You know as well as I do that I will sacrifice myself for your safety. I will make no promises otherwise. But I can guarantee you that whatever happens, my goal is to get out of this and return to Baker Street with you. I promise that I will do everything in my power to keep both of us alive, even if it means abandoning the larger mission. This is a human error, but it is a necessary one, and one that I am more than willing to make for your sake. I will never leave you the way I did when I jumped off that roof. If I die out there, I will really be dead this time," He cupped the side of John's face, running the pad of his thumb across John's stubbly cheekbone. 

"I'm sure you're aware of the severity of our situation. It is, in fact, quite dire. What I just said was meant to help you, but what I'm about to do is purely for myself. I have to do this, to save it, in case things go wrong and I don't have another chance. I know you want to do things like  _talk about it_ and  _make sure we're on the same page_ , but we haven't got time for that, so forgive me. I don't want to move too fast for you, but there's no time, John. We're running out of time. I'm sorry, but I have to-" Sherlock leaned forward, sliding his hand from the side of John's face to just behind his ear, holding the back of John's head lightly. His fingers wove through John's sandy hair, mapping the bony landmarks of John's skull. He brought John's face close to his, close enough that his features were slightly blurry and distorted, his eyes almost crossed.  _This must be why people close their eyes for things like this. It's dizzying._ Sherlock realized John's eyes were, in fact, closed, so he closed his as well. _  
_

Their lips met haphazardly, Sherlock slightly to the right of where he intended to be, only managing to capture half of John's smile. He corrected the position immediately, cataloging every sensation in his Mind Palace for future reference. _Warm. Rough with stubble. Chapped. Tastes of tea and sugar. Wet. Soft. John._

They parted, after far too short a time, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John beaming up at him, smiling and licking his bottom lip. 

"John Watson, I love you, and the game-" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly,  _always a drama queen_ , "is on!" He tore out of the house, Belstaff billowing behind him, leaving John standing in the doorway, before he could return the sentiment.

 _The game certainly is on, Sherlock. And what an interesting one you play. You are mad, and I love it,_ John thought as he joined the rest of the group in the car, ignoring Mycroft's impatient, exasperated expression and Greg's knowing smile. 

_I just hope we win the game, this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me with more comments, and I will reward you with more chapters.
> 
> For those concerned, I'm getting an MRI with contrast dye next Tuesday to determine what type of tumors I have, and if they're malignant, the extent of the metastasis. We're hoping for something that is NOT metastatic adrenal cancer, but that's what it looks like so far. I appreciate the prayers and well-wishes. I'll keep you updated.
> 
> Love you all, dearly. <3


	24. Dance with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short backstory to explain the Anthea/Mycroft relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Moran's physical attack on Mycroft is depicted at the end of this chapter. A bit bloody. He was tortured for information, after all. You've been warned.

Anthea's first memory of Mycroft Holmes was spitting in his face, after he approached her in an alley one night. It was a good one too, nice and thick, and hit him square on the bridge of his nose. To her surprise, his face was less disgusted than it was shocked, and he simply wiped the saliva off with the edge of his coat sleeve.

"I believe you've taken my advances the wrong way. I'm from the government."

"Excuse me? You're from the government, but you come to a dark alley in the dead of the night to 'inquire about my need for employment?' Bullshit. Get the fuck away from me, perv. I could take you."

Mycroft had no doubt she could. He'd been watching her, for several months, before he finally ran the background checks. She was 21, and had thoroughly studied psychology, political science, martial arts, marksmanship, and combat tactics through private tutors and her own research. Her intelligence and speed with learning was the closest to his own and Sherlock's that he had ever seen. She had been working as a freelance, undercover bodyguard for a wealthy man- because, honestly, who expects the size four brunette with the Blackberry to be anything more than eye candy? Unfortunately for her, her wealthy employer was also an elderly employer, who died of a stroke two months prior. With her single reference dead, and no other notable employment history, she had no where to go. Her mother had died twelve years ago, and she hadn't seen heads or tails of her father since she was five. Anthea was now living in her car, in an alley beside a bakery. The contradicting scent of freshly baked bread mixed with the dank atmosphere of the alley was not one that Mycroft would readily forget. 

"Marjorie, you do not know me, but I know you. It would behoove you to come with me, where we can discuss these matters more privately. I knew your employer, Richard. I have a job offer for you, and I daresay you aren't in a position to be choosy. I came at night so as not to alert my enemies. There is a car waiting by the curb, just over there."

Anthea perked up at the mention of  _enemies_ , and at her pervious employer's code-name, Richard. He had told her,  _If they come asking for Richard, they're safe. Let them in. If they call me by my given name, hold them at the door, and call for confirmation._  

"It's Anthea, now," is all she said before walking away and climbing into Mycroft's waiting car.

It proved to be just the beginning of a complicated, but mutually beneficial arrangement. 

Once Mycroft had sufficiently convinced her that he was, in fact, with the government, and explained the type of employment he was offering her, she simply couldn't say no. She was quite pleased with herself, although she did what she could to keep it hidden. Mycroft would train her as an intelligence officer for the MI6, but her official position would be his personal assistant and bodyguard. She would live in east wing of his home for convenience, and would be available to him whenever was necessary. When she wasn't needed, she could do as she pleased, as long as it was strictly legal and she kept a low profile.  _  
_

As the months went by, Anthea proved herself to Mycroft time and time again. She gathered intel on various government officials, kept surveillance on his younger brother and made the arrangements for his trips to rehab, shot and killed a man making an assassination attempt from a second story window, and kept his busy schedule running smoothly. For Anthea, it was the perfect mix of adrenaline-fueled action and quiet paperwork. For Mycroft, the arrangement gave him the free time necessary to hobnob with other people of importance and slowly climb the ladder to the position he occupies today.

After the first year, they were comfortable together, and worked well as a cohesive unit. Mycroft found he enjoyed the younger woman's company much the way he used to enjoy Sherlock's, before the drugs. He asked her once, why she never asked for leave on holidays to visit anyone. He knew her mother was dead and her father was absent, but surely, there must be  _someone_ who cares about her.

"I don't have family, Mr. Holmes. I don't make friends. It slows you down and then you get stabbed in the back when you least expect it," she'd said to him. 

He'd wanted to ask her who had stabbed her in the back, if she had literally been stabbed or if she was using a colloquialism, and what had happened to make her into the fiercely loyal, but stone cold woman she was.  _She's still practically a child. Twenty-two. Two years younger than Sherlock, nearly a decade younger than myself. But here she is, more intelligent that the majority of England and saving my life on a weekly basis._

Instead, he answered, "Quite right, Anthea. How pragmatic of you. I wholeheartedly agree. Care to join me for dinner in the dining room?" She nodded, briefly and sharply, before following him down the hall to the room where they would share their first of many dinners together. 

They were careful not to acknowledge the extent of their attachment, and even more careful to keep it from interfering with the work. Anthea reasoned to herself that it couldn't be helped. The man had given her a place to stay, provided her with a successful career, and trusted her with his life. Mycroft, unconcerned that Anthea would be foolish enough to allow sentiment to cloud her judgement on the job, simply took it upon himself to provide the girl with at least a small semblance of family. He felt she deserved it, after dropping everything in her life to shoot criminals for him and arrange his schedule each day. 

They got to know one another, and over the years, came to think of each other as family. He may have been paying her to protect him, but it was clear that he was her mentor and trainer from day one. He taught her how to shoot a moving target while running, how to hack into any government database that existed, how to control the CCTV cameras that littered London's streets, and later, in their free time, how to cook and bake. In return, she was there to handle his affairs when terrorist plots threatened England, when his younger brother relapsed, and when press conferences and international conference calls threatened to keep him awake for more than 72 hours at a time. 

It had been a decade sine they started working together, and their situation had morphed into something more similar to an equal partnership than bodyguard-and-charge. He would seek out her opinion on matters ranging from tactical plans and international relations to what they would have for dinner that night. In the past five years, they had hugged three times, each time after successfully handling a particularly harrowing ordeal, which was the extent of the emotion they showed each other. Despite this, it was enough. Mycroft had become the closest thing Anthea had to a father, and she meant to protect him even if it meant traveling to the ends of the Earth. They may not have acknowledged it, but they both knew how important they were to the other. Conversation wasn't necessary at this point.

The only time they had come close to speaking of their relationship was the recent night Mycroft staggered though Anthea's east wing doors, covered in blood, sopping wet with water that smelled of the Thames, and fell to his knees. 

"Mr. Holmes! You said you didn't need me this evening!" She exclaimed, grabbing her first aid kit and crouching next to him. She pulled back his half-closed eyelids, shining a pen light in his eyes, checking for pupil reaction. His pupils were equal, reactive, and responsive to light, but he wasn't answering her. "Mr. Holmes? Hey! You're home now, but you need to tell me what happened. Are we safe? Is the building compromised?"

Mycroft mumbled something before leaning to the side and coughing up a disturbing amount of water. He looked as if someone had tried to drown him. After regaining his breath, he was able to speak more clearly.

"We're fine here. I'm too valuable an asset for him, for now. He's going to leave us be, maybe. I don't know. I don't know. Oh, God, Anthea, what have I done? What have I done?" Mycroft was growing more pale by the second, his lips a dusky shade of blue, and he was clinging to the hem of Anthea's blouse as if his life depended on it.  _He's going in to shock. Jesus Christ, what have they done to him? I knew I should have tailed him._

A short assessment told her that despite his bloody appearance, he wasn't bleeding profusely and no arteries had been severed or nicked. She'd need to get his shirt off to get a real look at the damage, but it appeared to be professional.  _Meant to cause pain, but not maim or kill. What have you gotten yourself into, My? I told you these men were more dangerous than you thought. This is what happens when you underestimate your opponents._ It didn't look like he had any broken bones, but he was guarding his shoulder, which may have been dislocated at some point. She knew he would have popped it back in as soon as he was able- he'd taught her how to do the same for herself. 

She cut off his shirt deftly with bandage shears from the medical kit, and guided him to lay down where he was on the floor, with a throw pillow under his head. She propped his legs up on a chair, encouraging the blood to return to his core and brain. He was weaving in and out of consciousness, and she could only pray that he didn't have a brain injury. If going to the hospital was an option, he would have gone there instead of coming home, she was sure.

By the time he was awake again, she had put the field medicine lessons he gave her to good use. He opened his eyes to the swimming fuzziness that is morphine, noting that she had already stitched the extensive wounds on his torso and bandaged them with care.

"Mr. Holmes, good to see you've decided to rejoin the land of the living."

"Thank you, Anthea," he said, as he moved to get up.

"Nope, not so fast. Care to explain to me why you collapsed in my living room with an 'M' carved into your chest, vomiting water?"

Mycroft reclined back down on the floor, rubbing a hand over his aching head. 

"You're aware of the Moran situation, I'm sure," he began, and proceeded to explain to her that he had been forced to give up state secrets to keep his brother and John Watson's family out of harm's way. It was clear to her that Mycroft was convinced this Moran fellow would kill everyone he cared about, without a second thought. 

"Okay, I get that. He coerced you, and he clearly carved his initial into your chest, along with all those other cuts. But the water? He didn't throw you into the Thames just to fish you out again, did he?"

"No, no. He water-boarded me. Tasted like the water could have been  _from_ the Thames though, and lord knows I stink of the cesspool." Mycroft tried to laugh it off, but the sound died halfway up his throat.

They'd both been trained for this, to withstand torture and physical suffering, but Anthea found her heart clenching at the thought of Mycroft strapped to a chair, being mutilated with a knife and nearly drowned. She stood up abruptly, fetching a spare set of linens and began making up her fold-out sofa. 

"You're sleeping in the east wing tonight. Shall I fetch your toiletries and dry clothes?"

He glanced at her, startled that she was suddenly telling him where to sleep, as if she was in charge. He realized though, that both of them would be more secure if they were closer together. He managed to sit up, and stretched out a hand to her, which she took and guided him to his feet. 

"I'll accompany you. There's no reason why either of us should need to walk around the house alone at this hour, especially considering recent events." She offered her elbow to him, which he took silently, leaning on her slightly for balance. 

 _That bastard won't know what hit him when I get my hands on him,_ Anthea thought to herself.  _You will regret even hearing the name Mycroft Holmes when I'm through with you, Moran._

That night, she began her dance with the devil while Mycroft slept. ' _Swift, and silent, and deadly, Anthea,' He had said. 'This is how we take down our enemies.'_


	25. Where Do We Go From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the altercation at the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning- bloody death in this chapter, but the character who dies is inconsequential to the plot and I didn't even bother naming him.

The overpowering smell of mildew and sewage was the first thing Sherlock was hit with, as he lead the group into the warehouse that supposedly housed Moran.

The second thing he was hit with was a tire iron.

\---

He regained consciousness slowly, but remembered enough about how he was knocked out to know not to sit up too quickly, or open his eyes without a palm to shield his sensitive pupils from the light that was dancing just beyond his eyelids. Upon looking carefully around, he discovered that he and Mycroft were handcuffed to a steel support beam, both men half-sitting, half-lying on the damp concrete floor. Mycroft had the beginnings of a black eye blooming just above his left cheekbone, and was guarding his right arm, but appeared to be otherwise intact. 

_But... John. Where is John?_

Sherlock forced himself to shift slightly and support the weight of his head with his neck, rather than the support beam. He glanced around the room, seeing John and Lestrade handcuffed to a similar support beam just 60 feet away. Neither of them were conscious, but they were both breathing.  _John is breathing. Oh, thank god. But what about Anthea?_

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, his elder brother's voice found him with a question.

"Have you figured out who the weakest link is, yet, brother mine?"

Sherlock's lips pursed and eyebrows wrinkled in surprise.  _No. Anthea? Never. Definitely not. Absolutely, no._

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Mycroft continued, his voice shockingly thin and monotone. 

"No. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. What are the facts, Mycroft? If you've noticed, I've been rather indisposed since our arrival."

Mycroft sighed, but Sherlock could tell that his heart wasn't quite in it this time, unusual from the pleasure he generally takes in explaining things to his younger brother.

"The facts, Sherlock, are that Anthea insisted that the two of you enter the warehouse to assess the situation, while Gregory, John, and myself wait outside the doors. You took two steps inside the building, and she knocked you out cold with a metal rod. There were men waiting around the sides of the building for us. They grabbed the three of us, and injected John and Gregory with some type of sedative. Moran was waiting, inside. She kissed him and then they left. I don't know why they left me awake. Maybe it was her idea. I suppose she may have wanted to see my expression when she betrayed me," Mycroft rattled off to Sherlock, debriefing him quickly.

"Where are they now?"  _Anthea wouldn't do this. She's been coerced. She'd never choose this. No more than Mycroft would choose selling state secrets for my safety._

"I don't know. An observation room, probably. Just beyond that door," he nodded his head to the right, indicating a door that appeared to lead to an office.

_I've got to get Mycroft back in the game. He's in no state of mind to help me get out of this. But Anthea? None of this fits._

"I need more details. Describe to me exactly what happened when she knocked me out, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, why? It's useless. She's sold us out, and we're as good as dead. If Moran doesn't have us executed, someone else above me might instead. Just wait. Just wait for them to come back and we'll find out what our fate is."

 _Ah,_  Sherlock thought.  _That explains his attitude. He's resigned to death. Lovely. What can convince him that she knows what she's doing? She must know. She must be trying to help, somehow. She's like John. She'd never do this to him. Not after a decade of loyal service. She'd die before she hurt him- that's her job._

"It doesn't fit. I need to know what happened," he pressed, desperately hoping he would get through to his brother.

"I've bloody told you what happened, Sherlock! She hit you. She knocked you out. She let three other men assault the rest of the group. She waltzed off with Moran as if it was her sole purpose in life to be his arm candy." Mycroft slammed his foot into the ground on the last syllable in an effort to convey his frustration. "What part of this are you not understanding? We were set up. You were right when you said we were walking into a trap, but God, I never even considered this eventuality."

"When she knocked me out, did she let me fall?"

"Did she what?" Mycroft asked, incredulous that Sherlock was continuing to ask questions in a clearly hopeless situation.

"When she hit me over the head to render me unconscious, did she let my body drop to the ground, or did she catch me and lower me?" Sherlock asked, starting to flesh out the idea he had brewing.  _She was still doing her job, Mycroft. She could have killed me with that blow, or concussed me further. It was measured, I know it was. It must have been._

"She grabbed you, and carried you here over her shoulder, while the men dragged John, and Gregory. I walked, once it was clear the man could overpower me and was intent on breaking my arm if I didn't comply."

"She carried me? Mycroft, you're supposed to be cleverer than I am. Are you so clouded by sentiment that you can't see it?"

"See what? She carried you. What about it?"

"She  _carried_ me, Mycroft. And, more importantly, you were left conscious and mostly unharmed. We could be in far worse shape, even if she had simply dragged me across the room by my arm or let me fall to the ground. She's still working for you, Mycroft. Can't you see that?"

Mycroft was silent for a full minute before responding, "I suppose that may be a possibility."

"Good. Now that we're on the same page, help me get the leverage I need to slip the cuffs."

"Sherlock, they're too tight, I've already tried. You'd have to do more than dislocate your thumb."

"Then I'll do more! Christ, Mycroft, we're handcuffed to a pole in a building with a man who runs, arguably, one of the most dangerous terrorist groups in the world. Breaking my hand is the least of my-" he began, but was cut off by the door creaking open. Moran glided out, almost appearing to float as he made his way to two brothers. Anthea, surprisingly not texting, was strutting along with her arm looped through his, and rested her head on his shoulder when they stopped. Mycroft refused to look at her, but Sherlock took in the details. 

 _Body tilted towards his, obviously, she knows basic body language concepts, but the angle isn't right to be natural. Arm in arm, but avoiding holding his hand. Head resting on shoulder, but tilted to see as much of the room as possible, not directly facing him. Feigning ease and comfort, but tense and ready. I've found you out, Anthea, with the observation of trifles._   _I hope to God you have a plan._

"Boys! I see you're enjoying my generous accommodations. Unfortunately I couldn't give you quite the welcome I had hoped for, as I didn't want to traumatize my sweet Poppit here. Oh, don't give me that look, I know she's not a saint, but can't you see, Mycroft? She's a delicate flower. She needs protection. My beautiful, delicate Poppit," Moran turned his head slightly, to press a kiss to Anthea's forehead, which she returned with a soft nuzzle to his shoulder. 

"Now I'm sure you're wondering what exactly I've been up to, but what's rather more interesting is what I plan to be up to shortly. My Jim promised you something, Sherlock," Moran started, emphasizing the consonants of his words and spraying them with spittle in the process. "Jim always makes good on his promises. I've been sorting through them, doling them out as he planned. You're all that's left, my dear sociopath. Though, we both know that's not true now, don't we? Otherwise, I couldn't burn the heart out of you. But that's what Jim wanted, Shezza. And Jim always gets. What. He. WANTS!" He shouted the last word, much in the fashion of the late Moriarty. 

"James Moriarty is dead, Sebastian. He doesn't want anything, and further, can't have anything," Mycroft interjected, sounding bored.  _No, he sounds resigned,_  Sherlock's brain corrected.  _How can you have such little faith, brother? If you would look at her, it would be obvious. The little things are infinitely the most important._

"Fine, then. Let's drop the pretenses, and be honest," Moran stated, adressing Sherlock. "I loved Jim. You killed him," Moran bent at the waist, bringing his face close to Sherlock's. The detective could practically taste the foul odor of his breath. "You love John, so I'm going to kill him!" Moran continued, his tone light and jovial, as if he were discussing a trip to the circus. "Your dear brother is simply collateral damage at this point. But he's given me an excellent cover-up, so I must extend my gratitude. And everyone will be so pleased when they hear of how hard I fought to save the DI, but lost him before the paramedics arrived. Really, gentlemen, it's been a rather harrowing ordeal," Moran feigned a whimper, at which Anthea rubbed his upper arm reassuringly. 

"If you're going to kill John, why haven't you done it already then? He's lying on the floor unconscious. Have at it," Sherlock said, hoping that provoking the man would stall him a bit.  _Throw me a bone here, Anthea. I've got nothing. Did you find the evidence? Did Moran bring it with him?_

"Oh, but I don't want to break my new toys before I play with them a bit! Now, Shezza, I thought you would know me better than that. You certainly knew Jim. You spent his last moments together. Tell me, Shez. What did he say before you pulled the trigger?"

"I didn't pull the trigger."

"My Jim did not kill himself. I know better than to buy that BULLSHIT on the news. Tell me, or I shoot someone," Moran threatened, his voice fluctuating wildly between giddy and serious. He withdrew a revolver from the holster on his waist and waved it around. "I'll shoot an innocent man, and it'll be on you, Sherlock."

"I thought you didn't break your toys before you played with them-" Sherlock managed before the gunshot rang out, one of his own guards crumpling to the floor.  _Neck shot_ , Sherlock recorded automatically, not willingly wanting to watch the man die,  _skimmed his carotid on the way through his trachea. Bleeding out. Coughing, bubbles, gurgles. His own man? Why his own man?_

"Right-o, Shezza! They're indispensable to me. They know it. But that one would be alive if you'd give me what I want. I know how much you love to save people."

"I don't save people. I solve their murders. John Watson saves people, he's the doctor."

"Oh, but Sezza, don't delude yourself. You solve the murders so that people will stop killing. Here I am, murdering in front of you. Don't you want me to stop killing? It's all on you now. Who's next? Thing 1 or Thing 2?" He asked, pointing the gun from one of his guards to the other. "Of course, they know I'll shoot them anyway if they run. They're felons anyway. It's me, prison, or worse for my sweet puppies here." He smiled at the guards, who continued to stand by the door, stone-faced.

"What will it be, Sherlock? More killing, more lying, more desperate attempts to stall me? Where do we go from here? Tell me what he said, Shez. Any truth is better than indefinite doubt."

Sherlock struggled to make a decision as the moribund guard ceased his gurgling.  _I don't know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points for those who can fish out the quotes from ACD canon and tell me which stories they're from. I used well-known ones. It shouldn't be too difficult!
> 
>  
> 
> Also: Thank you everyone for the copious prayers and good vibes and well wishes about my health. I found out two days ago that I do NOT have cancer. I should continue to feel better and respond to the medication I'm on now. 
> 
> I used to work as a nursing assistant at the hospital, but left because of my recent issues. Now, I'm doing medical secretary/transcription work because it's less physical. In a couple months, I should have the stamina back to work as a nursing assistant again! I am so happy. 
> 
> There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Thank you all, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, for being so supportive and wonderful. I started writing this fic just a couple weeks before this medical disaster ordeal began, and I am so blessed to have you readers to keep me encouraged and focused on something other than my seemingly imminent demise. I love all of you.


	26. A Force to be Reckoned With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is violent and confused when given sedatives, Lestrade is injured, and Anthea tries to get the evidence needed to clear Mycroft's name.

The second shot was fired before Sherlock came up with an answer, leaving the second guard hemorrhaging onto the floor with a collapsed lung and a shattered rib. The man tried to gasp against the force of air crushing his pleural cavity from the outside, but it was no use. Sherlock couldn't help but watch as the man's tremors slowly faded, wishing that Moran could have been a decent shot, to keep their suffering to a minimum. 

"Listen, I can't tell you what you want to hear because I didn't pull the trigger. Moriarty put the gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger himself. His last words to me were 'Good luck with that.' He was talking about saving my friends. He shot himself to keep me trapped in an impossible situation, but I don't have any answers for you about why he would do that," Sherlock said, desperate for Moran to recognize the truth for what it was. Certainly, it would be easier for them to escape without the guards watching, but that didn't mean he wanted to watch them die. Luckily, the man was distracted easily. 

From across the room, he heard Lestrade sit up, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He realized that one of his hands was handcuffed to one of John's, with the chain threaded through an opening in the pillar. Quickly becoming aware of the situation, he looked to Sherlock and Mycroft to see if either of them had a plan. The brothers returned his glance with silence and no other cues to indicate that they were any more prepared for this than he was.  _Great. I told him this was a shit plan_ , he thought as he moved closer to John to take the man's pulse.  _His heart is racing, isn't that the opposite of what a sedative is supposed to do?_  When he looked up again, Greg noticed that Sherlock was eyeing him inquisitively, wondering why Greg looked so alarmed. 

"Sorry to interrupt guys, but if you shot us up with something to put us to sleep, shouldn't that make our heart rates slow? Because's John's is racing like mad." Greg announced to the group, not knowing how else to communicate with Sherlock from across the room. 

Moran clapped his hands and beamed at Anthea, who smiled sweetly back. "Oh, Poppit, looks like we're in for a show now, aren't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him, instead addressing Lestrade, "Greg, last time he had a sedative, he nearly broke my cheekbone when he woke up. He thought he was in Afghanistan. Stay well away from him until the confusion wears off."

"Well, if you haven't noticed, we're kinda handcuffed to the same steel beam, mate."

"Just do what you can. He'll overpower you."  _Shit, if this is anything like last time, he is going to attack Lestrade. Could very well kill him. I've got to get this under control._

'What fun! I might not even have to do the dirty work myself. I should have brought you boys home sooner," Moran continued, in the same disturbingly giddy tone he had used before. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly at Greg, who was still kneeling by John's unconscious form, hand on the doctor's wrist. Seeing Sherlock's expression, he dropped John's wrist and backed away, sitting down on the other side of the support beam. John started mumbling under his breath in Pashto, apparently slightly roused by Greg's handling of his arm. 

"Wadrega... wadrega lotfan... lotfan. Za na poheegum."

Moran was taking more interest in John than he had been a few minutes ago, while Sherlock was desperately trying to bring the focus back to him.  _The last thing John needs is this psychopath waking him up and confusing him more. He's going to hurt Lestrade, or himself, if he wakes up in this state._ Sherlock rattled the small chain between the handcuffs against the steel pillar that he and Mycroft were chained to. 

"Forgetting anyone, Moran? I thought you brought us here to play with. I'm getting  _bored_. You're not a very good host."  _Anthea, what the hell is going on? I have nothing to work with. Please do something._  

Moran smiled, the way a parent does when they explain to a small child why they can't have sweets for dinner. "I think John is going to give us a show here soon enough, isn't he? Maybe I'll have to provoke him a bit, if you're so eager to be entertained."

"That isn't exactly what I had in mind, Sebastian," Sherlock said, but Moran had already turned away and was walking towards John and Lestrade. The remaining guard was focused on John as well, giving Anthea the perfect gap in surveillance to send a message to Sherlock and Mycroft. The latter, unfortunately, was refusing to meet here eyes.  _No matter. All he needs to see are my hands._

She signed quickly, knowing that Moran's eyes would be off of her for a moment at most.  **Video at his flat. Working as quickly as I** **can.**

Mycroft and Sherlock locked eyes briefly, Mycroft visibly relaxing in relief. Sherlock made no move to respond to her, but reached out a hand to brush his brother's shoulder.  _Told you, Mycroft. Idiot._

Across the room, Moran had bent his face down close to John's, who had started moaning softly between brief phrases in broken Pashto. 

"Sebastian, I'm warning you-" Sherlock started, before Moran made a move that proved to be far more detrimental to his health than he had been expecting.

"Sahr pikheyr, Captain Wat-" Moran managed before John bolted upright, pulling Lestrade's handcuffed hand against the steel beam with enough force that the DI wondered if his wrist was going to snap. At the same time, John's free fist careened into Moran's face, sending droplets of blood and spittle flying from his lips. Moran, not having enough wits about hims to flee from a chained and delirious man, remained where he was, kneeling too close to John for his own safety. The next thing Moran knew was the sharp pain blossoming from his ribcage, where John's knee suddenly resided, pressing his body into the floor. Moran looked around desperately for his third guard, who had apparently taken the chance to run for it, and Anthea, who was pretending to have fainted.

"STAA NUM TSA DHE?! TA DA KOM ZAEE YE?! THEY'RE COMING FOR ME, TA POHEEGEE? THEY ARE COMING!" John shouted into Moran's face, his cheeks flushed with rage, but fists shaking with fear. After looking around at the warehouse, he suddenly scrambled off the man, obviously terrified and disoriented.  _This is not Afghanistan. I was tied with ropes in Afghanistan, not handcuffs. Where the hell am I? Breathe, Watson. Keep your head. You've got men depending on you. Probably. Do you? No one here is in uniform. What the fuck is going on?_ John pressed his back against the pillar as hard as he could, struggling to fight against his instinct to hyperventilate and panic. 

Lestrade was sure that his wrist was broken at this point, and was almost surprised that John hadn't pulled his entire body through the small hole in the pillar with the force at which his arm had been yanked. He used his free hand to support his aching wrist that was still pressed against the cool steel, while his eyes began to water. 

"John," Sherlock said, his deep voice clear and resonate in the room, "John, you are in England. I'm Sherlock. Control your breathing. Do you remember? Remember me, John."

John grappled with his fight or flight response, clawing at his memory of what was real and what was not.  _Sherlock. That's my flatmate. England. Oh, god. We must be on a case. This is all wrong. That man was speaking in Pashto._ His thoughts were slow and muffled from the sedative he'd been given, but his heart was racing and he could feel the cool rivulets of sweat drip down his back.

Meanwhile, Anthea pretended to have awoken and was assisting Moran to his feet. "Oh, Sebby! We've got to get you home. Please, let me fix you up. I can't stand being here another minute. Please, Sebby? We'll come back later to deal with them, especially  _that_ one," she said, with a disgusted glare in John's direction. Moran simply nodded, not able to speak so soon after the wind had been knocked out of him. He let her lead him out of the building, leaving the four men alone.

"Sherlock-" John gasped, fighting for breath. "Sherlock, what the fuck?"

Greg, sensing that John was more aware of his surroundings and wouldn't be a danger to him, crept back around from the other side of the pillar, and reached out to him. He placed his good hand on John's knee, wincing slightly at the pressure that was put on his broken wrist with the movement.

"John, it's Greg. You're okay. You're locked up in Moran's warehouse with me and Mycroft and Sherlock. He thinks he has the upper hand, but Anthea's up to something. She's on our side still. We're gonna be fine, mate. You gotta breathe, okay?" Greg coached John into a slow, steady breathing pattern, trying to ground him with his voice and the hand on his knee. His wrist was starting to feel oddly numb now, but he wasn't about to complain. Numb was a welcome sensation compared to the pain he'd been in a few minutes ago.

After a couple moments, John had successfully pulled himself back to reality and was no longer panicking. "Thanks, Greg," he murmured before looking more closely at Greg's face. "Greg, what's wrong? You're awfully pale. You haven't been shot, or stabbed, have you?" He asked, as he turned to try to get a closer look at Greg. With John's movement, Greg let out a pained gasp, and his free hand flew back up to hold his broken one. 

"Mmm," he mumbled through his grit teeth. "No, just a break. I'm handcuffed to you, pretty sure my wrist is broken. Don't move like that- it pulls."

"It is," Mycroft interjected. "I can see it from here. Hopefully someone removes the cuffs before the swelling cuts off your circulation, if the break hasn't already."

Suddenly remembering Sherlock, John called out to him. "Sherlock! Hey, are you alright?" 

"Yes, John, I'm fine. Concussed, but otherwise unharmed. Very pleased with how you handled Moran, to be honest. Even held captive, you are a force to be reckoned with, apparently. You gave Anthea the perfect excuse to get into Moran's flat and procure the evidence we need. It's only a matter of time before she returns, I'm sure. Excellent job, as always." Sherlock seemed positively delighted with the turn of events, which made John smile.

_Thank God you're alright. Thank God. I love you._

"John, you do realize you're speaking out loud, right?" Sherlock asked, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. "I return the sentiment though, obviously." 

John let out a nervous, breathy chuckle and rested his head back against the steel, while Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"Yes, yes, lovebirds. Clearly. Please allow the rest of us to focus on our escape plan while you make doe eyes at each other. Any thoughts, Gregory?"

"My current plan is hope Anthea comes back before I go into shock or this bone splinters through my skin. It's- argh. It's about a hair away from being a compound fracture, Myc. The pressure from holding my arm in- ugh- in this position is- mmmph- making it worse." Greg was breathing heavily, his jaw clenched. 

"Greg is right, Mycroft. All we have to do is wait. I'm sure Anthea has some plan to incapacitate him. She might even return without him. She's smart. She's got it under control," John offered.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, but was otherwise silent, choosing to delve into his mind palace rather than stay in the boring present with nothing to think about but waiting. The group lapsed into silence, save for Lestrade's ragged breathing and occasional grunts of discomfort. It was the wee hours of the next morning before Anthea came back, but her arrival was everything but heroic.

Moran was dragging her in by her hair, and it was clear that she had very little fight left in her, by the way she tiredly swatted at his hands and left her legs limp to scrape across the hard, damp floor. He dropped her in the middle of the area, in full view of the four men, and spat in her face while she struggled to get to her knees. 

"I've brought your  _fucking bitch spy_ back, Mycroft. Hope you don't mind that I'm not exactly returning her in her original condition. But, you'll be pleased to know I've also brought the fun little movie you sent her for. I thought maybe we could all watch it together. Wouldn't want anyone to get _bored._ "


	27. Drowning in Pennies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea takes out Moran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE CHAPTER OF DEATH.
> 
> Major character death.  
> Blood. Blood. Blood.  
> Brief, slightly descriptive torture.
> 
> If it's hard for you to read that, summary is in the end notes.

Anthea tasted the dirt and blood in her mouth, and tried to spit it on Moran's shoes before he walked away, presumably to fetch his laptop from the other room. She fell short, barely managing to prop herself up on her elbow, and noticed one of her eye teeth joined the spatter of bloody saliva on the ground.  _Inconvenient. That must be where all the blood is coming from._ She pushed herself up further, taking stock of her injuries. One of her ankles was twisted, the knee of her opposite leg was swelling rapidly, some of her ribs were bruised, and her cheekbone was probably broken.  _Good. I don't need my cheekbone to get the fuck out of here._  

"...thea? Anthea, are you hearing anything I'm saying?"  _Mycroft. Mycroft's been talking?_

"Hm? No, Mr. Holmes," Anthea replied, painstakingly working her way into a sitting position. "Could you repeat that?"

"What happened?" Mycroft pressed, needing to know how seriously injured she was, already formulating a plan. He was working hard to keep the stress out of his voice, she noted.  _Can't blame him, really. He's always been honest about how much he hates field work._ _  
_

"When we got to his home, he said he thought I was "trying to hard." He could tell I couldn't stand being around him, and I overcompensated. I never proclaimed to be the actor your brother is, Mr. Holmes. He roughed me up a little. Nothing serious. I think the only broken bone is in my face. He obviously doesn't think I'm much of a threat, or he would have incapacitated me."

There was a snort from Sherlock at that. "No offense, Anthea, but you appear fairly incapacitated. It took you nearly five minutes to get your head off the ground."

Anthea rolled her eyes. "I'm fine. Just needed the endorphins to catch up with me," she said, as she defiantly struggled to her feet, only to fall hard to her side. "Okay," she said, inhaling a slow measured breath through her nose. "Make that two broken bones. M'fine. Just need to stabilize it." 

"Anthea, you know as well as I do that underestimating the extent of your injuries will be detrimental to any escape plan we come up with. How long before Moran returns? Surely it doesn't take this long to get his computer," Mycroft said, unsure why Anthea had been left unbound and unsupervised for this long.

"I deleted the media player program before we left. Thought it might buy us some time later; looks like I was right. He's probably trying to get a strong enough internet signal to download a new one. We have a couple minutes," she replied, looking around frantically as if she misplaced something.

 _It's obvious Mycroft trained her,_ Sherlock thought, mildly impressed by her forethought. _But what is she looking for?_

"Found it!" she exclaimed, her gaze focused on the ground several feet away. She smiled broadly, before starting to crawl forward to retrieve the bobby pin from the ground. "It fell out of my hair sometime before we left. I meant to give it to you before leaving the warehouse, but I couldn't find it," she explained.

"What is this, a crime movie?" Lestrade's tired voice asked from the other side of the room, while Anthea made her way slowly towards Mycroft and Sherlock on her hands and knees, holding out the hair pin for Sherlock to take from her. "You spit out your teeth and then unlock the handcuffs with a hair pin? Everyone knows that doesn't work," Lestrade continued. 

Two sharp looks from Sherlock and Mycroft put a swift stop to his protests, while John directed his attention to Greg, who sounded far wearier than last time he spoke. "Greg, how are your hand and wrist feeling? How swollen is it?" John asked, not wanting to move to look and jostle the man's broken wrist any further.

"Can't feel my fingers... think part of it finally broke the skin. I don't want to move it to get a better look. It started bleeding a couple minutes ago. Not a lot, though. Might be going into shock."

"Probably. Keep breathing, Greg. Slow and steady. Sherlock'll be out of those cuffs in no time. Hopefully before Moran comes back," John answered, raising his voice on the last sentence in an effort to speed Sherlock up. 

Sherlock was making a valiant effort at picking the lock on the cuffs, but Anthea was growing more pale by the minute. She was kneeling in front of Mycroft, who reached out to rest his hand on her shoulder before speaking. 

"Anthea, I think you've got some internal bleeding, dear. John? Do you think? She's pale, diaphoretic. Did he kick you in your stomach?" He asked, looking hard at Anthea, who was wavering even on her knees. She nodded in affirmation.

"Almost there! Almost there...Damn it!" Sherlock mumbled, swearing under his breath at the cuffs. 

Moran opened the door and waltzed through it, toting his laptop under his arm. Sherlock hastily stowed the bobby pin between two of his fingers, praying that Moran hadn't seen it.

"Poppit! What have I told you about socializing with the prisoners?" He asked Anthea, in a voice that one uses to scold a child. Anthea glared at him, and he set down the computer to draw a pistol from the waistband of his trousers.  "Oh, nothing funny now, Poppit. We know how that went for you last time. I think maybe it would be best to sit quietly and enjoy the show," Moran said, smiling dementedly. "Since you've made such a great effort to get it, anyway. You must be  _dying_ to see it, musn't you? I hear it's a good one..." he let his voice trail off as he stuck a memory stick into the computer and the video popped up on the screen.

Mycroft's hand tightened on Anthea's shoulder.  _Don't let this get to you, Anthea. He's just trying to get under our skin._

"I think I'll start in the middle, what do you think, Mycroft? It's so boring before you start begging for mercy."

"I have an eidetic memory, Moran. If you think playing the video is going to bother me, you're stupider than I thought. I recall the entire ordeal. I could narrate, if you'd like," Mycroft retorted, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Begging for mercy, coming right up!" Moran chortled, as he skipped to the middle of the video clip. A tinny version of Mycroft's voice blasted from the computer's speakers at full volume, making guttural choking noises between shuddering gasps of air. The screen was filled with his face, a wet rag secured across his nose and mouth, while water poured over him from outside the screen.

For nearly thirty seconds, the room was silent, save for Mycroft's recorded voice. He rasped, his vocal cords sounding as if they had been dragged across hot coals, begging Moran to stop but refusing to provide him with the information he wanted. _Well, at least he started playing it before I started giving him all of Britain's secrets,_ Mycroft thought bitterly. He was staring Moran down rather than watching himself be tortured, and Moran was not taking kindly to it.

"Not exciting enough for you, Mycroft? Maybe I can motivate you a little to get more in the mood," Moran said, before aiming the pistol at Mycroft and firing an inaccurate shot that barely grazed the outside of his thigh. Despite the fact that the shot only grazed him, Mycroft's body jerked on impact and he swore in pain. Sherlock gave up all pretense of hiding the bobby pin and began frantically trying to free them, unsure of how serious Mycroft's wound was. 

Anthea sprang into action, using the jolt of adrenaline to propel her forward towards Moran, who was still wielding the firearm. 

"No! Anthea- I'm almost-" Sherlock shouted over the commotion, trying to get Anthea to conserve her energy, knowing she would stand no chance against Moran in her present condition. The cuff sprang open at the same moment Anthea lunged for the hunting knife that was holstered to Moran's belt. She grabbed it, shoving it deftly into his torso at the base of his sternum and digging upwards with all of her might. _Got you, son of a bitch._ For a moment, all she could feel was the warmth of Moran's blood pulsing down over her hands, both still grasping the hilt of the knife. 

Sherlock left Mycroft to deal with Anthea, since there was simply no way that Moran was going to survive a stab wound like that, as he sprang forward to free John and Lestrade. He turned to face the scene in horror when he heard Moran fire his weapon again.

She never heard the shot, but she knew he must have fired, as they were thrown apart from the recoil. Moran was laying in a heap, not two feet from her, clearly dead or on his way there. Seconds later, her ears were ringing and she felt Mycroft's hands on her, moving her body to find the exit wound on her back. The pain was present, but much less pronounced than she expected it would be.  _Probably the adrenaline. Or maybe things don't hurt as much when you're dying. Can't breathe. My lung. Must have been my lung,_ she reasoned, her thoughts coming to her in fragments now.  _My is here. My._

Mycroft looked at her as she reclined in his arms, his face twisted into an expression she could never recall seeing on him.  _He knows I'm done for. He's not even applying pressure._  

"Thank you," he breathed, shaking his head slightly. "I know it's your job, but thank you."

"My," she choked out before too much blood bubbled up from her throat.  _Copper. It's like drowning in pennies._

"Shh, shhh. It's almost over. I've got you, dear. Close your eyes. I won't let you go until it's over," he said, his voice quickly growing hoarse. He pressed her close to his chest as he kneeled in the quickly growing puddle of blood on the floor. She felt herself slipping away, wishing she had the strength to speak.  _Thank you, My. Thank you. I love you like a father. You're my family, I hope you know. You're all I have. My._

As her body stilled and the flow of blood from her wounds slowed, Mycroft couldn't pull himself away from her. He was unsure of how long he sat on the ground with the body of his surrogate daughter in his arms. He felt completely disconnected from himself. He was surprised to realize that he was speaking, in fact, when he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulders and heard his brother's voice trying to soothe him.

"Oh, God. No. No, no. Oh my God..." he found the words pouring out of his mouth.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, look at me, it's Sherlock. Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright, let's put her down now, John is calling for help. They'll be here soon, they'll take care of her, okay? Come on, let's sit with Gregory, okay? His arm is broken, but John wrapped it in about a minute, he'll be fine..." Sherlock spoke quickly, as much to distract his brother as to try to calm his own mind. He lead Mycroft shakily over to the wall Greg was propped up against, his arm wrapped tightly and tied against his chest by strips of ripped t-shirt. Mycroft was beyond logic thought at this point, dropping heavily down next to Greg, who wrapped his good arm around Mycroft's trembling shoulders. He pulled his knees close to his chest and let his forehead drop down to rest on his patellas, feeling very much as if he would never have the ambition to move again.

Greg rubbed Mycroft's back comfortingly, resting his forehead on the man's shoulder. Sherlock paced for another few moments, talking to himself under his breath, before he was too dizzy to trust his own legs. He finally settled himself on the ground next to John, who was still trying to explain everything to a very confused emergency services operator through Moran's phone. He finally gave up and hung up on her when they heard the sirens in the distance. Sherlock felt John grab him in a rough, sidelong hug and plaster a kiss to his hairline. "Thank God you're alright. Christ. I love you." _  
_

"I love you too, John."

"Is this over? Finally?" John asked, looking to Sherlock with a mixture of relief and residual stress.

"It's over, John. He's done," Sherlock assured him, pulling John's face forward and grazing the doctor's forehead with his lips. They waited, hand in hand, while the blood dried on the floor and the walls and their clothing, for the sirens to get closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was difficult to write. I don't to action-y stuff very well. Hopefully it's not complete shit. Let me know what you think! As always, I live for your comments.
> 
> Summary for those who would rather not read people die:  
> Moran comes back with the evidence, there is an altercation, and Anthea stabs him to death. Moran shoots her, and she dies in Mycroft's arms. They get out of the handcuffs and call for help.


	28. You Beautiful Madman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortie chapter of the immediate aftermath of the incident at the warehouse.

_Sirens._

_Flashing lights._

_Paramedics, police, government officials, reporters._

_Shock blankets._

_Crime scene tape, forensics._

_Stretchers, IVs, ambulances._

_Get some rest, Mr. Holmes, you've got a serious head injury. Lay back._

_Do we need to give you something to help you relax? You're alright, Mr. Holmes._

_Sherlock, calm down, I'm right here. Can you even hear me? Just give him something, he's confused._

_Prick. Cold._

_Darkness._

\---

Sherlock slowly awoke to the sound of John's soft snore and the feeling of his breath against his arm. He knew he was in the hospital from the feeling of the cheap sheets and by the fact that John was asleep in a chair beside him, leaning over on the bed, rather than beside him in bed. John stirred quietly beside him, sensing the detective was awake. Sherlock felt the doctor reach up and stroke his collarbone with the pad of his thumb, lightly skimming over his sensitive skin. 

"You awake?"

"Obviously, John."

"It'd be more obvious if you'd open your eyes for me, git."

Sherlock pried his lids a few millimeters apart. Then, noting John's smile, opened his eyes fully.

"Christ, Sherlock, I love you, but you've got to stop getting concussions, you beautiful madman," John said cupping Sherlock's cheek and pressing their foreheads together. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, considering I was knocked out with a tire iron... how long ago?"

"About a day and a half."

"Good, that means they kept me overnight for observation. I've been sufficiently observed. We're going home. And then you're going to sleep. Why you insist on staying awake just because I've been hospitalized, I will never understand. Your sleeplessness brings me no comfort, John."

John pressed his chapped lips to Sherlock's forehead, before straightening up and heading for the door. "I'll get the paperwork then, yeah?"

"Mmm." Sherlock mumbled, nodding, and closed his eyes again.

\---

As soon as Greg's arm had been stabilized and casted, and he'd given his statement at least five separate times to at least five different people, he was discharged. He wandered the halls of the hospital for about twenty minutes before finding Mycroft's room, where the man was supposed to be sleeping off the anesthetic from the surgical repair of his bullet wound. What Greg found was the eldest Holmes brother looking shockingly small, turned to his side with a hospital gown draped loosely around him, staring off into nothingness.

_Christ, I wouldn't even recognize him if I didn't know better. This man doesn't look anything like Mycroft Holmes._

Greg cleared his throat, unsure if Mycroft had noticed him standing in the doorway. He didn't respond, so Greg took that as an invitation to take the chair next to Mycroft's bed. 

Greg took a moment to really notice the expression on Mycroft's face. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. He was paler than Greg had ever seen him. 

"Myc. You doin' alright, mate?"

Mycroft's soft "no," was almost lost to the ambient noise of the hospital, but Greg caught the short word and the slight shake of Mycroft's head.

"Need something for the pain?"

"No," he said again, slightly more audible than before.

"Sherlock's about to sign out AMA. I can text him, tell him to come. He's doing fine, the CT was clear. He'll have a headache for a while though, and got some stitches as well."

"No," Mycroft repeated, making Greg wonder if that was the only answer he was going to get out of the man.

"I can sit here for a bit, wait with you while they do the discharge paperwork."

"Please," he answered this time, just as quiet as the first "no."

Greg rested his hand casually on the mattress, trying to let Mycroft know he was there for him without invading his personal space too much.  If, about fifteen minutes later, Mycroft's hand found its way to Greg's, neither man mentioned it.


	29. Very Much Like a Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft talk. Tears are shed. Brotherly love.

**Mycroft needs you. Says he doesn't want me to ask you to come. This is me not asking you. -GL**

**I was planning on stopping by on my way out. -SH**

**You were? Good. -GL**

**I was under the impression that the role of the younger brother was to always be exactly where asked not to be by the elder. -SH**

**Try not to be too much of a cock. -GL**

**That's exactly what John said. I make no promises. See you in five minutes. -SH**

Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand slightly to get his attention. The man didn't move to look at him, so Greg could only assume he was listening. 

"Sherlock's coming to see you before he leaves. You know how he never waits to be officially discharged," Greg said, unable to think if a single instance in which Sherlock stayed in hospital as long as his doctors recommended. 

"You texted him," Mycroft replied, his voice thin and hollow. Greg was used to Mycroft feigning indifference, but this lack of emotion was different, somehow.  _It's like everything he's ever felt was forcibly scooped out of him with a grapefruit knife._

"I did. Said he was coming, regardless of whether you wanted him."

"I did say no, when you asked if I wanted you to text him."

"Didn't care. He's your brother. You need him."

"Perhaps," Mycroft said, squeezing Greg's hand before lapsing into silence again. About five minutes later, Sherlock strode into the room without so much as a knock, leaving John standing awkwardly in the doorway, unsure if he was wanted. Greg untangled his fingers from Mycroft's, rubbing the pad of his thumb briefly over the back of Mycroft's hand. 

"John and I'll go get some coffee, yeah?"

"Yes, two sugars," Sherlock replied, ignoring the fact that Greg was obviously addressing Mycroft.

"That's fine, Gregory. I'll be sure to have Sherlock fetch you when he leaves." Greg nodded in return, and followed John out into the hallway.

Sherlock took Greg's previous seat, pulling it closer to Mycroft's bed so that he could reach his brother's shoulder. He reached out almost hesitantly, but rested his hand protectively over Mycroft once he realized he wasn't going to be batted away.

"Mycroft, I... I'm..." Sherlock started, knowing exactly what he wanted to express, but not able to think of a single way to say it. He closed his mouth, shaking his head minutely. "I'm so sorry I wasn't faster."  _I'm sorry I wasn't more clever. I'm sorry I couldn't get us out of the cuffs in time. I'm sorry for lunging for John when I should have been pulling Anthea to safety. I'm sorry she died because of my mistakes. Always, my mistakes. I'm like a black cloud that's followed you ever since I was born._

"I know. It doesn't matter much, now, how it happened. Or why."  _We were in that situation because of me, Sherlock. You know that. Don't be daft._

"It does. It does, and I could have stopped it, I could have-"

"No. Stop this," Mycroft cut him off, raising his voice slightly. He closed his eyes, and rolled on to his back, trying to find a comfortable position. "Any number of things could have altered the outcome of the situation. We could spend our entire lives in hindsight. You know as well as I do how poor that decision would be. You know what happened to Mummy."

Sherlock was quiet for several moments, studying his brother closely, before he decided to speak again. "Don't lay there and tell me not to blame myself when you believe this is all on you. 'You know what happened to Mummy, Sherlock.' Bullshit, Mycroft," he countered. His voice had a sharp edge to it, but he was speaking at a soft volume, not wanting to upset his brother but still wanting to get his point across.

Mycroft didn't answer, making Sherlock wonder if he had somehow crossed a boundary. "It's not your fault, Myco," he said, softly and without any venom in his voice. Remembering how Mycroft had comforted him when Sherrinford died, Sherlock moved his hand to rest on the crown on his brother's head, slowly moving his thumb back and forth over his forehead. "It feels like it is, but you know it's not. She knew exactly what she was getting into, and she was doing her job. She did it well, the way she was trained. If not her, it would have been someone else, though honestly, I believe that had it been someone else, we would all be dead or dying right now. She didn't save us just for you to feel guilty for the rest of our lives. She saved us so you could live. Your life was her job, and she did her job, and we both know that's how she'd want you to look at it."

"She's dead," Mycroft said, finally opening his eyes. A few tears worked their way out from the corners of his eyes, dripping down the side of his face and across his earlobes.

"She's dead, yes. But she died the way she wanted to- in action, killing insane criminals. You gave her a home, brought her into our family. She was happy with her life, because of you, Myco. You know that's true. She never wanted to die of old age, from heart disease or cancer riddling her body. You told me once, when you were training her, that you'd never met anyone like her. That she was so young and alive and powerful, that she reminded you of a burning fire. But you were wrong, I think. She was much more like a bomb. Crafted carefully, striking with unforgiving precision, and none of that slow flittering out at the end you get with fires. Volatile, but with a beautiful chemical structure. Bombs, if they were alive, would live good lives, I think. One with a distinct purpose, a goal they always meet. Quick, accurate, reliable, and deadly. She was very much like a bomb."

Mycroft nearly smiled, but his face took on more of a grimace, and more tears spilled out, unchecked, from his eyes. "I think-" he coughed, clearing his throat. "I think she'd appreciate that metaphor."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a small smile, thinking of Anthea's usual reactions to his metaphors.  _"Stop being an idiot, Mr. Holmes. I don't have the time. Just get in the car before I put you there."_

"It's fine to grieve your loss, Myco. But don't weight yourself so far down with guilt. Please. She wouldn't want that. And neither do I. I'll go see where Lestrade and John have gone off to, and send Lestrade back." Sherlock said, grabbing a few tissues from the bedside table and handing them to his brother. He stood, wavering only slightly from the combination of painkillers and concussion, and squeezed Mycroft's shoulder once more before he left to find Greg and John. 

He paused in the doorway, thinking of the recent encounters he'd had with grief.  _Himself, crying alone on the sofa of John's hospital room months ago. John, after the fall, after Mary and Elizabeth. Lestrade at Mary and Elizabeth's funeral. Mycroft, crying in the shower where he thought no one would find him, after Sherrinford's death, so many years ago. Mycroft, now, looking more alone and lost than ever._ _  
_

"Mycroft," he said, pausing to put his thoughts together properly before speaking. "Don't do this alone. You don't have to. You call me, if you need anything, I promise I won't be too much of a cock, since that's what everyone thinks I am, apparently. Or you call Lestrade, or John. Just don't isolate yourself, alright? You want to. You'll try to. But don't let it take you over."

"That's reasonable," Mycroft replied, doing his best to pull himself together before Greg came back. Sherlock still hovered in the doorway, looking as if he wanted to speak but was afraid of doing so. "What is it, Sherlock? Either stay or go find Gregory, but don't hover there needlessly. I don't have the patience."

"You know-" Sherlock started, but then stopped himself, one hand still on the doorknob, the other on the frame. "People say it like it proves something. But you know. And you hate sentiment, but this entire conversation has been simply  _dripping_ with it, so I'm just going to spare you. You already know."  _I love you, brother. I'm worried for you, and I ache for what you're going through, and this is just one more thing on my list of things I will never stop being sorry for._

"I know. Always, Sher. Thank you, though. Go find Gregory."  _I love you too, Sher. I'll be fine._ _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need more comments. They sustain me and give me life.


	30. Sentiment be Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortie chapter tying up some Mystrade ends, with the promise of more to come. Read the end-notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not one of those beautifully written, lovey-dovey, heartfelt things. No fantastic writing here. Just tying up some ends of the story. Next chapter will be the final in this fic, but I will be turning this into a series and there will be more story to come.

Sherlock and John left the hospital, while Greg stayed with Mycroft until he was discharged. They'd been informed that Mycroft's home was still technically off-limits, considering the ongoing investigation about the recent events, but that they should expect it to be released back into his custody within a day or two. With the video they found of Mycroft's torture, compounded with the records left on the computers back in Moran's lair, it was going to be an open and shut case. There would be ramifications, both political and financial, for the eldest Holmes brother, of course. But everyone expected him to be able to maintain his current, minor, position with the British Government once all was said and done.

He'd never taken a vacation, anyway. 

Greg persuaded Mycroft to stay in his guest bedroom, rather than isolate himself in a hotel room, while things were wrapped up by the authorities. Anthea's funeral was a small, private, ordinary service, and if anyone noticed Mycroft's eyes getting damp while he read her eulogy, they didn't mention it.

They likewise didn't mention the tight squeeze Greg gave Mycroft's hand when he sat back down next to the DI. Greg didn't mention to Mycroft that he was welcome to stay in the guest bedroom even after his house was surrendered back to him from the government, and neither of them mentioned it when Mycroft did just that.

Weeks later, when Sherlock barged in at 2:34 in the morning on a Wednesday, having just solved a particularly trying case, and both men came scrambling out of Greg's bedroom still half-asleep, Sherlock made sure he mentioned it, loudly, and with a joke about goldfishes that neither Greg nor John quite understood.

"Life is too short for two adults to deprive themselves of something they both want. Sentiment be damned," Mycroft had replied.

John smiled, weary but pleased, from a step behind Sherlock's shoulder.

"Quite right, brother mine. Now, Lestrade, the turquoise horseshoe, you're really going to tell me the imbeciles that work for you didn't see..." Sherlock answered his brother, without missing a beat before diving headfirst into the explanation of his most recent deductions.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never liked the idea of Mystrade. I have never shipped Mystrade. I have never even considered Mystrade to be something that would legitimately work.
> 
> And then, I wrote this story. Somehow, what I thought would be a short angsty Johnlock vignette has turned into an epic behemoth of a fic, and throughout the entire story, Lestrade and Mycroft gravitated towards one another as if pulled in by the other's orbit.
> 
> I'm leaving this chapter sparse, and slightly dry. I haven't delved very deeply into the Mystrade I've [accidentally] developed in this fic, but I plan to. I'm going to write another fic focusing on Lestrade and Mycroft's relationship as it pertains to this fic, and post it as another work in this series, eventually. I work 40+ hours/week and go to school full-time, so it may not be written until Thanksgiving. But it will happen.
> 
> Congratulations, Mystrade shippers. You've converted me. I don't know how or why it happened, but I couldn't have stopped it if I tried.


	31. How Brightly Those Minerals Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The end. Brief fluff. Much love.

It took John a few minutes to hoist the lanky detective up the stairs to their flat when they returned from the hospital, seeing as how the man was growing less and less coordinated by the minute and weighed down with fatigue, painkillers, and a concussion. When they finally made it to Sherlock's room, they both landed on the bed, in a fashion that could be described much better as tipping over than lying down. Their legs dangled from the side of the mattress, their hands were still clasped tightly together, and John's arm was slowly going numb at the shoulder where it was pinned between the mattress and Sherlock's bicep. 

John woke, six hours later, to the early afternoon sun shining through the bedroom window and Sherlock's face just inches from his own, his eyes wide open and boring into him as if he were a specimen under the lens of the microscope. John chuckled quietly, in his good-natured fashion, closed his eyes again, and pressed his face to Sherlock's so that they were forehead-to-forehead and nose-to-nose. 

"John. Watson." Sherlock stated, as if each component of John's name was a sentence on its own. 

In the hazy glow of the early afternoon sun filtering through Sherlock's curtains, John felt as if they had somehow created their own microcosm separate from reality, in which none of the horror or loss of the past few weeks could touch them. He nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's, relishing the quiet warmth and closeness they were sharing. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, whispering the words jut inches from Sherlock's lips.

"John, we should probab-" Sherlock was swiftly cut off by John's lips gently pressing against his, sweet and chaste. 

"No," he answered, after pulling away, opening his eyes once more to take in the rare sight of a Sherlock Holmes with eyes still slightly clouded from sleep.

"No?"

"Not right now."

"Then what, right now?"

"Right now, stop talking," John answered. Sherlock quirked a brow at him, but closed his mouth for the moment. "You are alive, and here with me. I am alive, and here with you. And I am _so thankful_ for this moment, right now. I love you more than I will ever be able to say. Let's just hold on to this for a little while longer, yeah? It's just you, and just me, and nobody else exists, not right now."

Sherlock answered John with a low baritone hum of agreement, grasping him about the waist and pulling them closer together.

_John Watson, I love you, and you are mine. You belong to no one else. When your skin touches mine, it lights my bones on fire. Do you know how brightly those minerals burn?_

_Sherlock Holmes, you are the best and bravest man. My best and bravest man. Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a wild ride, readers of mine. Thank you all for everything you have brought to this story, for the comments, for the encouragement, for the kudos, and for the love. You mean the world to me and you bring me happiness in the midst of dark, dark times.
> 
> As promised, there will be a Mystrade spinoff. It will involve Anthea as well, as we all need some more BAMF Anthea. This will be a series, and if you'd like, you can bookmark it or whatever it is you do to keep track of such things. 
> 
> I'm not sure when, exactly, it will be written, as I am so busy I can barely keep my head on straight. However, it most certainly WILL be written. It is going to happen, I can promise you. Possibly not until Thanksgiving or Christmas holiday though. Alas, the woes of a working student.
> 
> I love you all.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Dr Pepper


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